


If It Walks Like a Duck…

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bed Bath and Beyond Wedding Registries from Hell, Freebird - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Getting over a Breakup, I promise there will be smut, It's Highway Robbery, M/M, No One Spends That Much on Shower Curtain Rings, Rebound Relationship, Sam likes to buy Steve coffee to bribe him, Slash, Slow Burn, The return of Puddin Cat, This is Not a Stucky Fic, What's a Wedding without a Fake Relationship Hookup, fake relationship au, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you gonna brush your hair sometime today?” Sam inquired. “This ‘shabby chic’ look you’ve got going on right now is lacking in the ‘chic’ department.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know I got these pajamas <i>before</i> they were rolled back at Wal-Mart,” Steve told him snippily. “You’re picky, Wilson, ya know that?”</p><p>The Cookie Monster PJ pants were a little baggy on his lean frame, drooping a little at the waist. Steve reached down and scratched his stomach, and Sam tried to look away from the taut, fair skin that the hem of his ratty t-shirt exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keeping Up Appearances

**Author's Note:**

> Taken from the Tumblr otpprompt, Person A and Person B decide to be in a fake relationship to convince their friends that they are actually dating. After doing this fake dating stunt for a few weeks, Person A begins to actually have feelings for B. The day comes where they decide to end the “relationship” privately because their friends are finally convinced. Person A acts like they’re fine with that, but once B leaves (or is out of sight), Person A begins to cry. They’re actually sad and hurt.
> 
> I apologize. I am absolute trash. There is no reason for this tropey ridiculousness. But I love all of the “Barbershop Quartet” shipping combinations, and that DEFINITELY includes Sam/Steve.

It was never a good sign when Sam brought him coffee. It was a worthy bribe, Steve would admit, but exhaustive favors on his part soon followed. Memorable examples included an ill-advised karaoke duet of “Fat-Bottomed Girls” after six shots of Jaegermeister, after which Steve woke up the next morning in clothes he didn’t recognize, a variation on the more classic Walk of Shame, where he _typically_ came stumbling through the door with his _own_ clothes inside-out. Sam’s breakup from Riley spawned his suggestion of karaoke, a harmless-seeming distraction, and the white raspberry latte topped with a pristine floret of whip crusted with delicate nutmeg sprinkles, coupled with Sam’s bloodshot eyes, undid his resolve. Or the time he asked Steve to help move a piano out of his mother’s three-story townhouse. One banged-up knee, bruised elbow, bruised shoulder, and three scraped fingers later – Steve’s depth perception was shit, even with his glasses, and he nailed his hand against the doorway as he backed his way through it – found Sam pacifying him with a second coffee and a slice of his mom’s lemon pound cake. (Because suck it, Starbucks. Mrs. Wilson made her own streusel topping. _Streusel topping_.)

It wasn’t every jerk with a latte in his hand that could earn themselves a favor from Steven Rogers. Not every jerk could call himself Steve’s best friend since seventh grade. 

*

Samuel Wilson transferred to Shield Junior High halfway through the first semester, since he was an Air Force brat. Sam’s late entry into the student body meant that he hadn’t caught up yet to the fact that Steven Grant Rogers was the school outcast. The jocks descended on Sam at the lunch table in a cloud of Axe body spray and firm hold hair gel. It was Sam’s second day, and he already outpaced and out-threw everyone in his PE class (because _Air Force brat_ , of course), and Rumlow, the alpha dog of the pack, was already sizing him up.

Sam Wilson had _no time for this_.

“You new?” Brock Rumlow wasn’t the sharpest knife in the rack. He had weird brows and a mean glint in his eye. 

“Naw. I’ve lived here my whole life,” Sam countered, his wedge of French bread pizza halfway to his mouth. “Just don’t get out much.”

“I like him,” murmured the skinny, dark-eyed brunette with the beginnings of a goatee to his friend, whose deep-set eyes rolled in amusement as he nodded. “Can we keep him?”

“Don’t expect me to clean up after him. But, yeah.”

“Sam Wilson,” he offered, after giving them both a side-eye for the crack about “cleaning up after him.” Because, _no_. 

“James Rhodes.” He didn’t leave Sam hanging for a low-five.

“He’s lying. No one calls him that. I’m Tony. He’s Rhodey.”

“Do we need to have the talk again, Stark, about you talking for me?” Rhodey gave Tony a swat upside the back of the head, earning himself a dramatic “Ow!” and pout of reproach.

Brock, clearly done with the way all of the attention had been stolen from him, nodded toward the other side of the cafeteria. “There he goes. Five bucks says Rogers drops the tray.” Sam glanced up and noticed a kid who looked suspiciously young, skinny, and practically drowning in his baggy clothes. He was pale, blond, and had an undercut with long, messy bangs. His narrow face was swallowed up by a pair of reading glasses with awkwardly sturdy, tortoiseshell frames. At the moment, he was at the end of the lunch line being rung up, his backpack strap sliding halfway down his skinny arm, balancing his tray and trying to put his wallet back in his pocket. His backpack strap wasn’t cooperating. Sam saw the impending spill coming, because of course this Rogers kid spent most of his day pulling things out of his backpack and had a habit of only slinging it over one shoulder. And of _course_ he walked through the lunch line with it still on, instead of leaving it unattended at a lunch table where someone could mess with it, dip into it or leave a nasty surprise in its pockets.

The pack swung slightly and thumped against his back, the resulting momentum making it shoot off his arm toward the floor. Unbalancing the hand that was holding his lunch tray.

_CRASSSHHH!_

“Told you! Okay, pay up,” Brock demanded. His voice soared over the chorus of titters and jeers from the tables closest to the cashier station.

“Who?” Rhodey’s brows drew together. “Nobody took that bet.”

“We all saw it coming, anyway,” Tony mused. “We did, right, Sam…uh. Where you headed?”

Sam darted between the tables and scattered chairs. “Get your feet off the table,” he told a boy in a hoodie with the school’s logo who had them propped there. “You’re not at home.”

“So?” he snarled back. _Honestly,_ Sam thought. What was the matter with some people? Couldn’t respect their surroundings, or help out the kid who was struggling to pick up all of his scattered belongings and food. Thankfully, his juice was in a can with a pull tab, but everything else hit the floor, turning it into a Jackson Pollock painting. The cashier looked bored and annoyed as she locked her register screen and went to fetch some dishtowels. Sam bent down and began retrieving the fallen utensils and dishes, piling them onto the dirty tray. Steve looked up at him in surprise, face beet-red.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Nice juggling act,” Sam told him.  
“Right? I’ve been practicing that one,” he offered, and his smile was grudging, but Sam could tell he was humiliated. His movements were jerky as he hurried to clean up the mess. “Thanks,” he told the cashier as she handed him the damp towels.

“Thanks for pitching in,” she told Sam, who shrugged and smiled.

“Glad to, ma’am.” Because Sam’s mother had taught him right.

“You can go back in line, Sunshine,” she told Steve. “You already paid.”

“I’ll take this,” Sam told him as he relieved Steve of the dirty tray and towels. Sam handed it off to the woman at the window, where she unloaded dirty dishes from the carousel. “Hey, let me hold that,” Sam told him, reaching for Steve’s pack. Steve’s hand briefly tightened its grip on the strap, and his lips thinned.

“I’ve got it.”

“Might make it easier,” Sam pointed out. “C’mon. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Sure you will.” Steve’s voice was gruff. Sam shrugged again.

“I will. I already ate.”

Steve looked uncertain for a moment, pushing his glasses back up his nose. His eyes were a pale, bright blue, and they searched Sam’s face for any signs of bullshit or tomfoolery.

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

Sam hung back, away from the line as the cashier began scanning orders again, and Steve hurried up and went back for the hot entrée, a half dozen unremarkable beef raviolis swimming in sauce, vegetable medley that spent more time in the freezer than it had on the farm, and a granola bar for later. When Steve emerged from the line and set his tray down on an empty table, he made a sound of protest as Sam walked off with his pack, toward the jocks.

“That wasn’t… where I wanted to go. Sam! Hey!”

“Will you hurry your butt up?” Sam asked him dryly, nodding at him to follow. Steve gave him a look of reproach, but he followed Sam (and his backpack) to the jocks’ table, hesitating when he saw them already seated. Pietro, Clint and Thor had joined them, taking up all the space with their notebooks, tablets and trays. He gave Sam a silent look: _Where am I supposed to sit?_ Brock took the last empty chair before Steve could make up his mind. He stood there with his tray, the awkward pause making his cheeks flame an even deeper scarlet.

Sam edged himself between Rhodey and Tony – not something they were accustomed to – and set his backpack under the table, took the tray from Steve’s hands, and set that on the table, claiming that space. Sam took the closest empty chair from the neighboring table and slid it out for him with a flourish. “Make yourself at home.”

Brock shook his head and huffed. Sam raised his brow. 

Brock shoved himself back from the table. “Later, losers.”

He’d saved Sam the trouble of getting another chair.

 

And it became a routine. Steve would show up in the cafeteria for lunch, late. He would later admit to Sam that he hated getting changed after gym class when everyone else was still in the locker room, and he would lag behind the bell for the sake of privacy. Sam would save him a spot at the table - _their_ table. Steve would go through the line, attempt to sit by himself, and would find himself accosted and relieved of his backpack, just short of Sam physically wrestling it off of him.

“Will you put that thing _down_? You always look like you’re running away from home, Rogers.”

“Don’t… don’t mess with it-“

“I know. Go. Food. I’ve got this.” Sam would shoo him away and set Steve’s pack on what was now _Steve’s seat_ at their table.

If anyone had told Steve that he would have ended up at the jock’s table halfway through the school year, or that they would occasionally steal glances at his sketchbook while he scribbled and give him grudging praise, or that they would eventually look for him in the library to borrow his notes, instead of constantly shoving him into his locker or running off with his gym sneakers (thanks, Brock) and tossing them by their tangled laces up over a power wire, he would have said they were out of their damned minds. It was a slow transition, granted, but still. Still.

It didn’t hurt that Steve had Home Ec and Drawing for electives that year, and he knew a lot of girls. Nat, Jane and Pepper would him waiting at the table for Sam one day, and they automatically occupied the next table over.

“What’re you doing over here? We were going to wait for you outside,” Nat accused. Steve gave her a sheepish smile.

“You flaked,” Pepper added.

“How rude, Steve!” Tony shamed. Rhodey, Sam and Clint shot looks around the table at each other, declaring _Steve’s useful, after all_ when the girls pulled up their chairs and wedged themselves in around the tiny table wherever they could find room. Thor wasn’t paying them any attention; he was watching Jane with a loopy smile, listening to her ramble about her algebra test.

Over time, Sam learned that Steve kept his whole life in his backpack. Cell phone. His sketchbook. His case of drawing pencils and pens, most of which cost a _grip_. His Epi-Pen. Claritin melty tablets. Gym clothes. Packets of Kleenex. Cough drops. His inhaler. Advil. It was like carrying around a CVS on his back. _No wonder he didn’t want anyone to mess with it._

Sam and Steve were content to keep their friendship low-key, meaning that Steve tried not to look shocked whenever Sam paused in conversations in the hall to call out to him as he passed by, and that Steve even started saying hi _first_ , instead of ducking out of his line of sight to avoid drawing attention to himself. That had been a baby step. Baby steps still counted for something. But having a place to sit at lunch, with actual _people?_ Without having to stand outside the lunch line, tray in hand, staring at a sea of strangers who thought he was a nobody and wondering if they would make room? That was a breakthrough.

That had been all Sam Wilson.

 

*

“Steve! Hey, STEVE! C’mere!” Steve turned toward the sound of his name before he let go of the handle on the water fountain, and in typical fashion, he ended up squirting water up his nose.

“GAHH!” He wiped his nose on the sleeve cuff of his flannel, and Sam grinned at him from the bank of lockers. “Jerk,” he muttered.

“Not my fault you have a drinking problem, Rogers.”

“You drive a guy to drink.” It was their usual argument, even after three years. Sam tugged him over and looped an arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders.

“So, I need you to do me this favor.”

Steve gave him the side-eye and tried to duck out from under his arm, but Sam caught him again. “Ahhhh, no ya don’t.”

“Don’t rush off yet. C’mon, Steve. We’re friends. Friends do each other favors. Look, I’ll even sweeten the deal.” He tugged him out of the corridor toward the courtyard, leading him toward the soda vending machine. “Root beer?”

“Seriously? You’re going to bribe me with root beer?”

“This isn’t a bribe. This is ‘sweetening the deal.’ They have Orange Crush, too…”

Steve sighed and rubbed his nape. He gave Sam a long-suffering look. “What is it _this_ time?”

“So, I might need you to talk to Carol for me. She’s in your Textile Design class eighth period, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, maybe put a word in for me.” Sam fished out a couple of ones from his wallet and fed them into the machine, punching the buttons to dispense two cans. Steve reached for them both as they thunked down into the drawer and took them to a nearby water fountain to rinse their tops before handing Sam his Coke.

“Okay,” Steve told him incredulously. “Why? She’s gonna wonder why I’m asking her about you.”

“Not if you keep it casual.”

“Not if I keep it casual… _casual,_ Sam?” Steve gave him an exaggerated shrug, throwing up his hands. “Seriously???”

“Well, _yeah._ Like, you might just walk on up to her when she’s fiddling around with her screenprint, and ask her if she’s going to homecoming with anyone yet.”

“Because that question won’t sound ridiculous coming from _me_.” Steve skipped every school dance since the eighth grade semi-formal, when his date ditched him for Brock Rumlow, went out with him and his friends to the parking lot, and drank his stash from his parents’ liquor cabinet. Lorraine ended up puking in the bushes while she and Steve waited for her parents to come pick them up. They eyed their daughter with reproach as she climbed into the car, but her mother caught Steve’s eye in the rearview mirror and told him, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, Steven.” Half the night in an itchy necktie and dress shoes that pinched his toes, his date wouldn’t dance with him, and he spent most of the night in the bleachers or wandering into the gym’s breezeway until the chaperones herded him back inside, scolding him to go have a good time with his friends. Sam had been no help. Sam and his date were cutting a rug. Sam even started the Soul Train corridor in the center of the dance floor. Steve was pretty much done, but he cheered him on, anyway. 

“It’ll sound just fine coming from you!” Sam told him brightly, with that winning smile, and Steve’s vision clouded for a moment, because… yeah.

He could never resist that smile. That wasn’t something he was ready to share with his best friend any time soon. Or, y’know. _Ever_.

“She’ll think I’m the one who wants to know.”

“And you are. For a friend. For your _best friend_ , Steven Grant.”

“Oh, God… there we go.” Middle name-dropping was a powerful weapon in Sam’s arsenal. “Don’t say that out loud, people might hear you!”

“Drink your soda,” Sam reminded him. “Gotta keep those fine vocal chords of yours in shape for when you talk to Carol.”

“Soda’s actually bad for your throat-“

“Gimme that!” Sam snatched the can away from him, and Steve yelped and made grabby hands for it again.

“JERK!”

Sam held the soda hostage against his chest. (And for several brief moments, Steve wished he was the soda can. Because, _Why, Lord?_ ) Because of course Sam would make him notice the way he filled out his snug sweater and his hands, broad and strong, or the way the sunlight hit his dark skin, making it gleam. “Ask her,” Sam reasoned, “and you get the soda _back_.”

“I don’t know why we’re friends.”

“What? Steve!? I am _crushed_ that you would say such a thing! Heartbroken!” And just to give Steve a hard time, he began to shake the root beer can.

“Oh… _you_ …!”

“You’ll ask her, right?”

“Yeah, yeah… fine. But you owe me!”

“Pffft… name it. Any favor you want, for my man Steve.”

“Remember that you said that. Gimme the soda.”

“You’ll talk to Carol.”

“I will talk to Carol.” Sam surrendered the root beer, than gave him a low-five.

Predictably, Carol gave Steve a weird look as soon as the question was out of his mouth.

“What do you mean, am I going with anyone yet?”

Steve felt embarrassment and irritation creeping over his flesh. It didn’t help at all that Carol was tall, stacked, beautiful, and the kind of girl who typically ignored him, so far “out of his league” that he wasn’t even on the same playing field. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose, his usual uncomfortable tell. “Sorry. I know that sounded pretty random. But, are you? Going with anybody?”

Carol narrowed her blue eyes shrewdly. “Who else wants to know?” She kept rolling ink over her carved linoleum plate as she soaked her paper in the tub of water. Steve’s cheeks burned.

“Sam?” he attempted in a low voice, hoping that no one around them was paying attention. 

It was the correct answer. Her face lit up. “Oh.” 

“So, uh… are you?”

“If he asks me, yeah.”

Something inside Steve wilted a little.

*

Steve and Sam rolling into the student parking lot mere moments before the homeroom bell became a frequent thing by senior year, once Sam was eligible for a parking permit. He rescued Steve from the school bus and took him with him to Dunkin Donuts for coffee every morning, once they both realized how much they _needed_ it. AP English and senior math review waited for no man. They crammed for mid-terms and chapter quizzes, slaved over college applications and essays, and Steve drew into the wee hours of the night, eyes drooping and so dry that they burned as he tried to finish pieces for his exit portfolio. They juggled backpacks and sports duffels with lidded to-go cups still steaming, washing down lemon meringue and key lime donuts with coffee regular (because it was cheap) before stalking at a near jog to their respective lockers. It was so strange, wondering how they ended up there so quickly. 

_Senior year._

To be honest, Steve hadn’t changed much. His voice dropped an octave and he’d grown maybe three inches during the time Sam knew him, but the top of his head barely reached the tip of Sam’s nose. His wheat blond hair darkened to caramel, and he hadn’t filled out much, but he had a firmer jaw and brows, and his nose stopped being “pert” and caught up to the rest of his adult face. Calling him “cute” was an injustice. When Steve ducked his head in embarrassment and smiled in _just that way,_ that face became something special. Approachable. Welcoming. And Steve learned early on not to stare too long at his best friend, correcting himself just before Sam’s brows could draw together.

Their coffee runs were a staple of their friendship. Saturday morning trips to the library and school booster club car washes required fuel. Sam was a morning person; Steve wasn’t. He was more the sort who got his second wind after 7PM. Before coffee, Sam’s unflagging cheerfulness (and sickening ability to jump out of bed already stunning) made Steve want to punch him. Any side of the bed Steve rolled out of was the wrong side. But that first cup of coffee turned him into a live wire and a smart ass. Once Sam bought Steve coffee, he had a partner in crime.

*

Sam was counting on their previous track record now, if the caramel frap that he was currently saluting Steve with was any indication. He looked impeccable in an Under Armour polo and faded jeans, and Steve yawned, urging his face into disgruntled lines. Sam wasn’t buying it. “Good morning, Sunshine!”

“It’s not morning yet,” Steve argued. “Not for some of us.”

Sam checked his watch and made a surprised sound. “Hm. Nine AM. Birds are singing, that big yellow ball of light is burning up in the sky, and I had to sit in twenty minutes of commuter traffic to bring you coffee. You’re welcome, by the way. Maybe I’m mistaken, but that sounds like ‘morning’ to me, Steven Grant.”

“Not when I have deadlines,” Steve told him through another cavernous yawn. “I pulled an all-nighter on a commission. I didn’t go to bed until about three hours ago.”

Sam winced. Then he shoved the sweating plastic Venti cup into his friend’s hands and stepped past him into Steve and Clint’s apartment. “Well, don’t just leave me in suspense. Show me what you sacrificed a whole night’s precious sleep to finish.”

“Be glad I like you. I’ve forgotten _why_ ,” Steve pointed out, but he dipped his head down to suck up the small puff of whip striped in caramel that peeked through the domed lid of the coffee. It was heavenly, and he made an indecent noise, licking it off his lip.

Sam felt a small shiver run through his insides at the sound and the brief rapture that settled over Steve’s drowsy features. He cleared his throat. “You’re uncouth.”

“Ya wanna see it or not?” Steve told him.

“Yes. And drink your coffee.” Steve led him into the kitchen, still horrendously messy and a clear sign that Steve pushed everything else aside to push through his commission. The military kid in him shuddered at the sight of the unwashed dishes, the garbage threatening to overflow from the tall, white can in the corner and piles of recycling, and the discarded clothes draped over one of the dinette chairs – Clint’s, if the purple dri-fit shirt and matching black and purple biking shorts were anything to go by – and he leaned against the edge of the only kitchen counter that wasn’t covered in dishes, empty food containers and junk mail. 

Steve was normally pretty neat, having grown up with a mom who was an RN. Sarah Rogers believed in bleach; whenever Sam visited their apartment when they were younger, there was always a whiff of Clorox in the air, and every flat surface inside gleamed. Sam’s mother initially had her doubts about Steve when she dropped Sam off for his first sleepover, but they were put to rest when she saw the immaculate apartment. She was so accustomed to the constant tide of jocks and military kids that Sam always brought to the house, and it was odd, now, for him to have a friend as introverted as Steve, who wasn’t interested in sports and who looked so fragile. Yet they hit it off well. Steve was an excellent houseguest, helped set and clear the table, was well read, and he was unfailingly polite. 

Sarah would have fainted dead away to see this carnage. Steve came back into the kitchen from the ball hallway, bringing his portfolio. He opened up the leather flap at the top and withdrew his large Bristol drawing pad.

“My client is a children’s author. He wanted the illustrations in ink. I used gouache, too, just to keep the colors soft.” Sam’s eyes bulged, and he whistled appreciatively. He let Steve slowly flip through the sketches, letting him take in the details that robbed him of sleep. Sam knew better than to touch Steve’s sketches, not wanting any oils or sweat from his fingertips to smudge Steve’s hard work. If Steve shared them with him before he delivered them to his clients, it was a _big deal_.

"Nice," Sam murmured. "If I was a kid in a library and was listening to a grown-up reading that and they were showing me the pictures, these would make me happy. That’s a book I’d be excited to check out.”

Steve’s smile was pleased and bashful. “Good. That’s what I was hoping for.”

“Well, you delivered.”

“So. What’s up? Why are you here looking like you need me to give you blood?”

“Nothing that drastic. Next time,” he promised. Steve snorted into his drink. “I need you to come with me on a shopping trip. I need to get Ray-Anne an engagement gift. You’re good at that kind of thing.”

Steve choked a little on his drink, sputtering “Shit… when’s the wedding, again?”

“Take it easy. Don’t inhale that. Not for another month and a half, Steve.”

“I want to make her something. I was thinking a drawing, of some kind. Or a canvas.”

Sam beamed. “She’ll love it. She’ll absolutely fall out if you paint her something to hang up in her living room. She loves your artwork. But I need to get her something off of her registry, and she and Truman registered for a _metric shit-ton_ of crap they don’t really need.”

“How long have they lived together, again?”

“Three years. Long enough to have pots and pans, towels, and a waffle maker.”

“Get a Best Buy gift card. Truman can put it toward a big plasma screen TV for his man cave.”

“ _What_ man cave?” Sam huffed, chuckling, and he slung his arm over the back of his chair. “What parts of the house that aren’t Ray-Anne’s belong to Puddin’.”

“Her cat?”

“You think I’m kidding.”

“I find it frightening if you’re not.”

“It’s her fur baby. She spoils her rotten.” 

"Gads..." Steve didn’t mind cats, so much, but they made his eyes water when he spent too much time in someone’s house who had an indoor one. Sam warned him that if he came with him to the housewarming party, it would be wise to slam a couple of Claritin first.

“Are you gonna brush your hair sometime today?” Sam inquired. “This ‘shabby chic’ look you’ve got going on right now is lacking in the ‘chic’ department.”

“I’ll have you know I got these pajamas _before_ they were rolled back at Wal-Mart,” Steve told him snippily. “You’re picky, Wilson, ya know that?”

The Cookie Monster PJ pants were a little baggy on his lean frame, drooping a little at the waist. Steve reached down and scratched his stomach, and Sam tried to look away from the taut, fair skin that the hem of his ratty t-shirt exposed. “Go. Shower. Introduce yourself to a toothbrush.”

“I can’t believe the harsh standards you’re holding me to,” Steve warned him. “I might go out the door _just like this,_ now, Sam.”

“Not with that hair. Looks like you got attacked by a lawnmower.” His bed head was _awesome._ If Sam had to be honest – and he never would about this, because it was his job to give his best friend as much shit as humanly possible – he longed to touch it, maybe lean down and breathe in the scent of his shampoo and the smell of sleep still clinging to his skin.

Sam waited for Steve in the living room, and it wasn’t much neater than the kitchen. He decided to give it a once-over while he was hanging out, gathering up more discarded plates and containers, returning the throw pillows to the couch, straightening up the coffee table, and wiping up the crumbs from the side table. He gathered up more clothes that looked as though Barton had stripped out of them on his way in from work (Steve didn’t own socks with slices of pizza on them) and shoved them into the laundry hamper in Clint’s room. Steve’s room, by comparison, was much neater, all of his DVDs and books in their proper shelves and all of his shoes lined up in the bottom of the closet. Barton’s room was a train wreck, smelling like the remnants of Old Spice and dirty socks. Sam shuddered at the sight of the edge of a pizza box sticking out from under the queen-sized bed.

Sam found the Pledge and some shop towels from the pantry and began dusting Steve’s coffee table and TV stand to entertain himself. He knew his friend was exhausted, and he would welcome crashing in a clean space when they got back. Sam Windexed the mirror in the entry way and then tackled the dishes in the sink, listening to the shower running in the back of the apartment. He heard Steve coughing under the steam, and that concerned him, since he didn’t need to be getting sick. He knew it was a little forward of him to clean when he was a guest, but still… _a pizza box under the bed, Clint? Really?_

Sam had the clean dishes put away and the garbage bagged up and knotted shut by the time Steve finished his shower, put in his drops, took his various pills, shaved, brushed his teeth, and gelled his hair into a more agreeable shape. He smelled like tea tree-mint shampoo and Listerine and looked fresh and reputable in the zippered argyle sweater and black jeans. Steve got cold easily; the forecast said it was going to reach a high of eighty degrees, but that didn’t stop him from bundling up. They were going to an air conditioned mall. Sam supposed he couldn’t blame him. Steve stared around the kitchen, jerking his head around to glance into his now-tidy living room. “Got bored, Sam?”

“Just keeping myself occupied.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Barton has pizza boxes under his bed.”

“Well, let him clean ‘em up. Let’s go.”

Sam chucked the sponge back into the sink and waited for Steve to grab the rest of his coffee, wallet, phone and keys. They climbed into Sam’s Honda CRV and headed for the Westchester Galleria. Sam wrangled a parking space close to the entrance of a Bed Bath and Beyond. Steve made a face.

“She registered here, huh?”

“Yup. Home of the twenty-dollar melon baller.”

“Why not just get it at Target?”

“Everybody registers at Target.”

“Everybody registers here, too,” Steve argued. “And no one ever gets what they register here for. Everything costs a grip.”

“Steven, shame on you. Puddin’ needs five hundred thread count sheets for her cat bed.” Steve choked on his coffee again, and he shook the last slushy gulp into his mouth before discarding the cup. They headed for the kiosk and printed out a registry list, then perused the aisles.

“Plum. Grape. Aubergine. Eggplant. They’re all the same shade of purple, but just different brands,” Sam muttered as they browsed the towels and coordinating shower curtains.

“They aren’t the same shade, you heathen,” Steve insisted. “I don’t know you.”

Sam pulled a face, giving Steve a little shove. “ _Purple_ , Steve. Yeah, I said it,” he added when it looked like Steve was going to fight him on it.

They continued browsing, checking out some of the clearance items. 

“Think your sister needs a shiatsu foot massager?”

“No.”

“She registered for one.”

“No, she didn’t. Oh, good Lord, yes, she did,” Sam groaned.

“At least it wasn’t guest soap. Nobody uses guest soap,” Steve pointed out. “I mean, no one wants to ruin those little seashell soaps, they look too perfect in the dish, no one’s gonna want to ruin one washing their hands after they take a –“

“Shit,” Sam hissed, stopping in his tracks, hands in a death grip around the shopping cart handle. 

“- piss,” Steve finished, turning to notice Sam’s face, incredulous and upset. He followed the path of his dark eyes to a couple at the end of the aisle.

Riley. Still sandy-haired, buff, impeccably tucked in like Sam, and with his hand against the lower back of a tall brunet. Sam longed to duck behind the display of tacky looped bathroom rugs, but he wasn’t quick enough. Riley stopped laughing at something his companion said about the drawer handles shaped like soccer balls and turned when they felt themselves being watched. His smile faltered for a moment, but then he narrowed the gap between himself and his friend, sliding his arm around his waist instinctively. Sam’s mouth went dry, and his eyes felt hot. Steve felt color rising into his cheeks, absorbing Sam’s tension in waves. Hoo, boy.

“Hey.” Riley was the first one to speak. Sam could tell he was toying with the idea of simply turning the corner down the next aisle, but he took a pull-the-bandaid-off-fast approach to this. Sam wasn’t sure whether to be grateful.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice sounded gritty to his own ears. “Browsing?”

“No. Shopping. Gotta buy a wedding gift,” Riley’s friend confessed. His accent sounded slightly French. His dark hair had little silver streaks in it, even though his skin was unlined and he looked very young. He had shrewd blue eyes and a late season tan. He toyed with the printed registry sheets in his hand, and Sam smiled sighing.

“What a coincidence,” Steve piped up. “Save some aubergine bath mats for the rest of us, okay?”

“I know, right?” Riley laughed, but he looked like he wanted a speedy exit. “Yeah, so. I’m being rude. Sam, this is Jean-Paul.”

“You know Steve,” Sam offered. But Steve stepped forward to shake Jean-Paul’s hand. His grip was perfunctory and cool, and there was a hint of smugness as his eyes swept over Steve’s body. And suddenly, Sam stiffened. He read that look in an instant: He thought Steve was his boyfriend. And he was looking at Steve with disdain. Steve, short enough for Sam to tuck under his arm, slender-limbed Steve whose eyes looked enormous behind his reading glasses and whose collarbones stuck out when he wore a V-necked shirt. Steve, who was an absolute cinnamon roll. Steve, who helped Sam drown his sorrows in Jaegermeister and bad karaoke to help him get over being dumped by the _same smug bastard with his arm currently wrapped around him_ like a damned trophy.

No. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Steve fit easily under Sam’s arm.

Sam demonstrated this now. Steve suppressed a huff of surprise when Sam pulled him into his firm body, fingers curled around his shoulder almost… possessively.

What. The. Heck.

“We should probably let you get back to your shopping. There’s a nice special on the shiatsu foot massager on aisle four,” Sam suggested. His smile was beneficent. Steve tried to mirror it, but he saw Riley giving him a look of reproach.

“How long have you…?”

“A few weeks,” Sam shrugged. “You know what they say. Time flies.”

 _Ooh._ Steve bit the inside of his cheek with the urge to laugh. No. Time _hadn’t_ flown. Sam had been in a bad way after the breakup. Steve barged into Sam’s apartment when he hadn’t heard from him for a solid three days. That time, _Steve_ washed Sam’s dishes and made him swallow some food and shave. It had only been three months. Obviously Riley wasn’t shy about “getting back out there.” But this, this was Sam, getting his own back for a minute. The smile was shit-eating, his posture was straight but relaxed. He turned and smiled down at Steve, who raised a brow, but Sam’s eyes told him _For the love of God, just go along with it. I need this._

“Sure does,” Steve assured them.


	2. And If It Quacks Like a Duck...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, Nat wasn’t impressed with the new guy he was hanging on.”
> 
> “Can’t imagine why,” Steve chimed in.
> 
> “Yeah. Funny. Nat said he was all hoity-toity.” Clint no doubt paraphrased what Nat really said, since she would never allow the world at large to hear the words “hoity-toity” leave her mouth. “Then Riley told her, ‘Sam sure seemed happy with his new guy.’”
> 
> For the second time that day, Sam choked on the bite of food that he put in his mouth. He stood coughing and rasping while Steve rushed to pound on his back. “Geez… did that go down the wrong pipe?” Clint asked, looking concerned. “Sorry. It was just funny. He thought you guys were dating!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m bringing back Ray-Anne, Truman and Puddin’ from my fic “Strut Right By with My Tail in the Air” for this story, even though this isn’t Sam/Bucky. Different pairing, slightly different universe, though. Except, I think Steve was just a “prop” as one of Sam’s neighbors in that story, and he was Buff Steve, not Skinny Steve. Whaddever. Ignore that. Read on.

The ride home from the galleria was a circus.

“What. Was that?”

“Nothing,” Sam insisted as he cranked on his music, crunching his Bluetooth port into his phone. His face attempted to look calm, but there was a stubborn tightness to his mouth.

“Was that why you brought me coffee today?”

“Pfft! No! Hell, no, Steve!”

“Geez… that was the coincidence from hell, then. Wow. That was just… my stomach dropped down into my shoes for a moment, Sam. Of all the people to see today…”

“Yeah.”

“You look a little… disgruntled…”

“Nope! Not one bit! I’m feelin’ good,” Sam pronounced.

“Eeeeyeahhhh,” Steve murmured. “That sounded convincing.”

“Everything’s fine and dandy. I’m hungry. I’m gonna stop for something.”

“Okay,” Steve said under his breath. “Okey dokey.” He stared out the passenger side window as though he found the rows of outdoor strip malls very, verrrrrry interesting. He felt Sam’s tension rolling off of him as they pulled into a Green Burrito drive-through, and Sam sat impatiently (out of character for him) in line while Steve perused the menu for anything edible. “You move forward when the guy in front of you moves, lady,” he muttered, and Steve knew he had his hackles up.

“So,” Steve mentioned. “Jean-Paul.”

Sam snorted.

“Seems a little… assholish.”

Sam huffed, but the beginnings of a smirk twisted his lips. “Ya _think_?”

“He’s not you.”

“Well, no _shit._ ”

Steve turned to face him fully, but Sam would only give him his profile. “He’s not,” Steve insisted softly.

"What do you feel like eating?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded mollified. Slightly.

“It has to be here?”

“ _How can I help you today?_ ” squawked the electronic clerk as the digital display on the menu total board lit up. Steve sighed. Sam leaned out the window and began shouting back.

“Can I get an order of the chicken taquitos, please?”

“ _Sure!_ ” the box chirped back. “Care to add a side or grande-size that?”

“Uh-uh.”

“The fiesta salad,” Steve interjected.

“Not if you don’t want it. I can stop at Noodles and Company if you want something else,” Sam allowed, because he was still in a mood, but he knew Steve.

“Promise?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Sam flicked him a glance, noticing Steve’s stiff posture in the passenger seat, and he relaxed a bit. “Sorry. Just… sorry.”

“I want a chowder bowl,” Steve told him.

“Okay.” They rolled up to the window and watched the girl with the mic headphones struggle to make change. They picked up their order at the final window, and Sam gave the clerk a civil nod, not his usual megawatt smile. That spoke volumes about the battle he was fighting in his head, if you knew Sam.

They left the store without a gift, which meant that Sam would either have to make the trip back, or he could admit defeat and just get an equivalent item at a different store when he was in a better space. Sam almost felt jealous about Steve’s bread bowl, but he ordered a cinnamon roll for the two of them to split. Steve tugged it out of its paper sleeve and ripped a strip of sticky bread from the coil, making a sound of pleasure when he shoved it into his mouth. Steve loved dessert first, once more reason why he and Sam were friends. Sam reached over and pulled off a piece, too, and the sweetness in his mouth helped, somehow, comforting to his chafed nerves. That, and Steve’s presence by his elbow.

“It’s still hard, when I see him. I haven’t all that much, since…” His voice trailed, and he stared ahead at the road as he turned off onto the freeway to get Steve home. Steve yawned gustily, and Sam noticed that his eyes were drooping. The momentum of the night before was catching up with him, and he felt guilty about dragging him out.

“It’s gonna be hard. You two weren’t just messing around, Sam. You thought he was the one. He pretty much was, for a while. It’s not like changing a pair of socks.” 

Sam sighed.

“You loved him.”

“More than I could say for him, huh?”

“No! Well, yes!” Steve made an exasperated sound. “No!” Sam gave him a look, but Steve shifted gears. “He was the one who called it quits. Riley was the one with the problem, and that problem wasn’t you. You loved him, and he kept doing all those things that people do to push you away without ‘really’ coming out with why they’re pushing you away. It was passive aggressive, it was beneath him, and you deserve better, Samuel Wilson.”

“Okay.”

“You know this.”

“Okay.”

“Admit that I’m right.”

“You’re annoying when you’re tired.”

“And when I’m right.”

“Yes. And when you’re right.”

“You’d be telling one of your students the same thing if they came to you talking about a break-up and how much it messed them up.”

“I have a little more life experience than my students, Steve.”

“A little. Just don’t go posting pictures of yourself with sad puppy eye filters on Instagram.”

Sam had been taking a bite of one of his questionable taquitos, and he nearly aspirated it. He alternated between coughing and laughing. “You’re a terrible human being.”

“You’re welcome.”

They pulled into Steve’s parking lot, and Sam walked him up out of habit.

“Want the rest of this?” Sam asked, holding up the sweet roll.

“Just half. C’mon in, and we’ll split it.” Steve dug in his pockets for his keys and unlocked the door after the third try of shoving the key into the slot, yawning the whole way. He was bushed, and Sam felt even guiltier for taking him along. When they let themselves in, the sounds of an Ultimate Fighting match assailed their ears from the living room. Clint waved to them from the sofa, and Sam noticed with annoyance that half the cushions were back on the floor. He was shirtless, his tee slung over the sofa arm already, and he was hugging a large squirt bottle of water.

“What shenanigans did you two just get back from?” he asked. “Nat said she saw you two coming out of Bed Bath and Beyond a little while ago, just as she was pulling into the lot.”

“We must have just missed her,” Steve offered. “You’re home early.”

“I had a couple of deliveries and clocked back out. Just an O2 concentrator and a wheelchair. Both of them were local.” Clint worked for the hospital equipment delivery warehouse and frequently had to work weekends. “But yeah, she got there just as you guys left. And she ran into Riley.” Clint gave them an odd look. “He actually spoke to her. Guess he’s feeling more social than he was the last time we ran into him at the gym.”

“Bet he was,” Sam muttered.

“Yeah, Nat wasn’t impressed with the new guy he was hanging on.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Steve chimed in.

“Yeah. Funny. Nat said he was all hoity-toity.” Clint no doubt paraphrased what Nat really said, since she would never allow the world at large to hear the words “hoity-toity” leave her mouth. “Then Riley told her, ‘Sam sure seemed happy with his new guy.’”

For the second time that day, Sam choked on the bite of food that he put in his mouth. He stood coughing and rasping while Steve rushed to pound on his back. “Fuck… did that go down the wrong pipe?” Clint asked, looking concerned. “Sorry. It was just funny. He thought you guys were dating!”

“Funny,” Sam groaned, huffing to catch his breath.

“Yeahhhh, about that…” Steve began. He gave Sam a quick look, mirroring the one Sam had given him in the store: _Just go along. Trust me._ “We might’ve given him that impression.”

“Wait… what?” Clint’s laughter died down, and his smile grew incredulous. “Whaddya mean, impression?” He cocked his head. “Wait. So, are you two…?” He made waving motions at the two of them, linking them together with an imaginary lasso.

“Yeah. Kinda,” Steve told him, and Sam fought the urge to choke again, because Steven Grant Rogers was clearly trying to kill him, now. “We’re just low-key. Having fun.”

Clint huffed. “Okay. Well, good. That’s great.” He grinned then. “I’ve been waiting for somebody to get this jerk outta the house more often. That way I can hang out in my underwear and drink milk out of the carton without judgment.”

“So much more information than I ever wanted, Barton,” Sam told him with both mock and genuine disgust.

“You do those things when we’re here,” Steve argued. 

“Which fight is that?” Sam asked, nodding to the screen.

“The Canelo fight. I missed it while I was working the night shift last week,” Clint told him. “I love DVR.”

“I was wondering why his shorts looked familiar.”

“Let me split that roll.” Steve motioned for Sam to follow him into the kitchen, and Sam noticed now that Steve’s cheeks were red. There was tension making his body curl into itself, and his walk was stiff. Sam followed with their food bags and Steve took a shaky breath when they reached the counter.

“Look,” Steve muttered quietly as he pulled a knife out of the butcher’s block and sliced the roll with it, dividing it and laying Sam’s half back in the sleeve, and his own on a paper towel. “I didn’t know what else to say. I was just following your lead. From earlier.”

“That just happened. I saw the two of them, and I just did the first thing that popped into my head,” Sam told him back on a loud whisper. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want.”

“No, no,” Steve told him, gesturing for him to lower his voice a little more, even though the fight sounded loud enough from the living room that Clint couldn’t be hearing much else. “It’s… it’s fine, okay? This might be better. If Nat and Clint think we’re together, it might be better. If they see Riley around again, they’ll tell him we’re together.”

Sam’s lips curled. “That’s just… no.”

“Why not?” And Steve actually looked a little put out. “What could it hurt?”

“What if we forget our story? What would be the point of taking this any further and pretending we’re together? It was fine, before-“

“It was funny,” Steve told him. “C’mon, Wilson,” he whispered, elbowing Sam as he leaned in toward him. “It was a _little_ funny.” Even though, if Steve had to be honest, his palms had been sweating, his heart hammered in his chest, and butterflies took wing in his stomach when he felt himself pulled against Sam’s body. His flesh still remembered how safe he felt for those few moments, the tingle of his hand closed over the crest of his shoulder, how Sam had smelled, the heat of his body through his shirt… 

How it affected him must have leaked onto his face, and Steve noticed Sam giving him a funny look. He cleared his throat. “Nothing wrong with letting him know you’ve moved on.”

“Well… okay. I guess.” Sam rubbed his nape. 

“It’s no big deal,” Steve told him. “I was just putting the option out there. If you wanted it.”

“I’m, uh… I’m gonna go. I’ll let you do your thing.”

“You mean sleep?”

“I mean sleep.”

“Hey, fine. I’m all worn out from giving you a cover story,” Steve told him. “Who knew this friendship would be so much work?”

“Punk,” Sam muttered.

Steve walked him to the door, past Clint.

“You out already, Wilson?” Clint asked.

“Yup. Steve’s gonna fall over.”

“Awwww. Go tuck him in,” Clint teased. “At least give him some sugar.”

Steve and Sam froze, then turned to face each other, questions flitting across their faces.

Because of _course_ this would happen. Sam contemplated just letting it all go, letting Clint in on the joke, because Barton loved a good joke as much as the next guy, but-

Steve’s grip on him was firmer than he expected, and he stood on tiptoe and planted one on Sam, stealing away his brief grunt of surprise. He tasted the remnants of his cinnamon roll on his lips, and his own relaxed and yielded to him. They shared breath, warm and misting over each other’s lips, and a shiver ran through Sam at the way Steve’s hand tightened on his arm. Sam’s eyes were open wide in shock, but Steve’s were shuttered behind his glasses, and that told Sam to go with it, to keep playing along for Barton’s benefit.

(Sure. Just for _Barton’s_ benefit. Riiiiiigggght.)

And Sam went with it. More easily than he thought.

“Ew. Okay. Enough, enough. Get a room,” Clint told them from the couch, shooing them off and making a face.

“I’ll… call you,” Steve promised.

“O-kay,” Sam agreed as he backed out of the door. “Bye… Steve.”

“Bye… sweetheart.”

_Geez._

This, Sam realized as he went to his car, was only going to get worse…

*

All week long, Sam was distracted at work, picking apart the day at the bed and bath store, the ride home, the kiss at Steve’s… so many questions rose up in his head. He didn’t have answers for any of them.

But Riley… seeing him again, just… ouch. So many of the old feelings rose up and crammed his chest, and it was hard, and so painful, watching him with that new man of his, who was so unlike him. He felt a little sick, at little disembodied when he ran back through his reel of memories of their relationship, wondering when he should have seen the signs. It felt so instinctive to want to hide from him, his inner voice shouting at him _Don’t let him see that he’s brought you low. How much he’s hurt you._

And he turned around and saw Steve, concern for him flickering over his face, blue eyes full of sympathy, telling him _You can do this. I’m rooting for you. Who does this jackass think he is?_ Because it was Steve. This was his other role in their friendship, calling Sam out when he was doubting himself.

Why on all day of days did they have to walk into the same bed and bath store as his ex when he had his new man on his arm? The universe had it in for him, clearly. 

“Sam?” Bobbi popped her blonde head in around the edge of his door, smiling expectantly. “Time for your two o’clock IEP.”

“Thanks.”

“I already have the handouts printed. Anything you want to add?”

“I already added my notes to the database,” Sam assured her.

“You look kinda down,” she observed, hovering in his doorway, manicured hand resting on the knob. She wore her staff lanyard and a Shield High tee that read “Fight, Commandos, FIGHT!” in white block lettering. “Need coffee?”

“Nope.” He held up his empty mug. “Anymore and I’ll have the DT’s.”

“Understood. Calm down, Chief.”

“I’ll be in in two shakes,” he told her.

“Make it one. The parents are already in the library.”

“Ooh.” That brought him out of his seat, because she could have told him that first, couldn’t she? Sam gathered up his notebook, handout packet and pen, grateful that the laptop was already set up in the library. 

The meeting ran shorter than the allotted half hour. Jessica and Luke Cage knew the drill already and ticked off their list of goals for their daughter.

“Let’s keep going with the speech therapy. It’s helping,” Jessica told him.

“I want her in the after school program again, too,” Luke added. “She can play basketball this winter, but she needs help with that math grade.”

“Agreed,” Sam offered.

“We’re seeing improvements in her work habits. Temper still needs a little work,” said Bobbi, who taught their daughter’s English class. “She’s reading so well, now, and her writing skills have just about hit the benchmark we were working for.”

“Temper is still an issue with Miss Danielle,” Sam pointed out. “We had some outbursts this quarter.”

“She will respect the furniture,” Jessica promised. 

Because Danielle had been having an “off day” and kicked a desk across the room.

“I’m rooting for her,” Sam told her. “When you flip her ‘on’ switch, she’s a kick in the pants. We love working with your daughter.”

“She had the best commentary on Scarlet Letter when we read it last quarter,” Bobbi said. “She said when Hester stood up on the scaffold after she was caught cheating, it was as bad as posting it on Instagram.”

Jessica snickered. Luke facepalmed. And Sam loved his job.

*

Ray-Anne called him a couple of days later. Sam slid to answer the call halfway through his dinner.

“H’lo?”

“I need you to go to a fitting,” Ray-Anne told him without salutation.

“I’m fine, Ray-Anne. Thanks for asking.”

“I want you to go with Truman on Wednesday to do it. James and Tony are going with him. All of you groomsmen need to look the same, so you might as well all go at once.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t trust your brother to dress himself for your weddin’?”

“I don’t trust any of you,” she deadpanned. Sam snorted into his leftover chow mein. “Y’all know you’re knuckleheaded.”

“You know you love me,” Sam argued in placating tones.

“Pffft,” she huffed. “Mama dropped you on your head when you were born. She just told me not to tell.”

Sam cracked up.

“ _Anyway,_ Samuel, go on Wednesday. I booked you an appointment at the menswear shop at four.”

“I’m barely out of work by then.”

“See if they will give you some wiggle room to leave early. Or be a little late, but just _be there._ ”

There had been no arguing with Ray-Anne ever since Truman put a ring on that woman’s finger. Sam adored his older sister, but this wedding planning was turning her into a different person. From the moment that they set a date and put a deposit on a venue, Ray-Anne seemed to lose her mind. Ray-Anne micromanaged table settings and seating arrangements like she was playing Tetris. She became obsessed with which wine to serve with beef and which with the fish option, even though no one ever ate the fish option, and she was even debating on whether to buy a few vegan plates if any of her meat, egg and dairy-shunning friends decided to RSVP. The price of minor things such as wedding invitations, bridesmaids’ gifts, and rented tablecloths sent Sam into sticker shock when Truman told him, and his future brother-in-law looked positively _ill_ whenever he read their credit card statements. Sam didn’t envy Truman in that regard. Sam lived frugally on his school salary, and Riley used to joke about how cheap Sam was. He’d spend ten dollars for a haircut, yet he would treat himself to a six-dollar Starbucks Venti with all the trimmings. It used to baffle his ex. 

“You’ll have to pry this mocha out of my cold, dead hands, babe,” had been Sam’s constant response, side-eyeing Riley over the rim of his cup lid, for _reasons_.

Steve understood him. Steve understood coffee. Steve never passed judgment on Sam for having a boyfriend who clearly didn’t. 

“What color is everybody wearing?” Sam asked.

He heard her low inhale before she started, and Sam instantly regretted the question. “Oh, Lord… it’s beautiful. You are going to look _so_ sharp. My planner suggested it, and I agreed so _hard_ , baby brother! All of you are wearing charcoal gray with a cream vest…”

Sam’s eyes began to glaze over.

“And the white carnations and baby’s breath on the lapel will tie the whole look together. I like the silk kerchief in the pocket…”

Sam’s chow mein was getting cold listening to his sister carry on.

“Wing tips, by the way. I want all of you in wing tip shoes, don’t go to Payless and buy some generic looking, cheap-ass loafer…”

“I know.”

“And dark socks. So help me God, don’t make me do a sock check. If I see even one white sock when I walk down the aisle, that man will wait in the parking lot for the duration of the ceremony, holding up a sign that reads ‘I can’t dress myself.’”

“Harsh.”

“Necessary.” Ray-Anne snorted, and the pitch of her voice changed as she took a bite of something in the background. “I love you. But don’t you embarrass me.”

“So picking my nose at the front of the church is out?”

“So is picking your ass. Wear decent briefs.” Because that was how Ray-Anne rolled. “Truman picked up these _really_ nice no-show briefs, Sam, maybe you should-“

“Good Lord. No. I am _not_ going out and buying the same underwear as your husband. That image will haunt me in my sleep. Just… no, Ray-Anne.”

“You want a nice line under the slacks!” she insisted.

“Goodbye, Ray-Anne.”

“Wait,” she interjected before he could slide off the call. “Are you bringing a date? There’s room on your invitation to RSVP plus one.”

_Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot._ Sam held his breath and counted to five.

“Are you bringing anyone, Sam?”

“Yeah. Um.” He paused. “Yeah. I’ll have a date.”

“Okay. Okay. Good. Because, speaking of which…” And this time his sister left him with a pregnant pause and a gusty sigh. That made his stomach flip. “I might have… already sent an invitation to Riley a while back.”

Sam’s whole world whited out for a moment. “You… okay. Wait. You sent him a what? You sent Riley-“

“An invite. And a save-the-date magnet. This was a few weeks before the two of you parted ways.”

“Well… you can _uninvite_ him, right???”

“I know, I know. I should. But Sam, he had already RSVP’ed yes.”

How did this even happen?

“How did this even happen?” he asked aloud.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Ray-Anne… this isn’t good. This is a hot mess waiting to happen.”

“Sam…”

“Fix this. _Please_ fix this.” Sam’s stomach twisted up into knots, and he felt cold sweat breaking out over his skin. This was the worst that could happen, looming ahead of him in less than a month and a half, and his sister was giving him mincing apologies.

“I don’t know how to go about this without seeming impolite.”

“Ray. I’m your brother. Riley’s my _ex._ ”

“I know that. I don’t know how to tell him ‘Maybe you shouldn’t show up after breaking my baby brother’s heart’ without sounding petty.”

“That’s _exactly_ how you tell him, Ray.”

Ray-Anne sighed, and the following pause was just as heavy as the first. “You know this is awkward. And you know I’m under a lot of stress. It’s not like I could have calculated this.”

Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Then maybe you’ll be short a groomsman. Tell Truman he can fend for himself with Tony and Rhodes.”

“SAM!” She sounded aghast, and Sam felt a cruel moment of satisfaction. His face felt hot and he heard a buzzing in his ears. He dropped the call like a bad habit, then chucked the phone across the room like it burned him.

*

He rage-watched a whole season of Brooklyn 9-9 before he began to calm down. It was way past his bedtime, and he knew he would feel wretched the next day and want to skip his morning run, but his mind reeled with his sister’s words and his own frustration. How could Ray-Anne do this to him? Just, _how?_

It was a little after ten. Sam wasn’t expecting a call. Normal people would have been apologetic for possibly waking him or putting him out of his way at that hour with wanting to talk.

Normal people weren’t a nocturnal artist who left commission deadlines to the last minute. Normal people weren’t Steve. Sam, for once, was glad as all get-out that Steve didn’t conform to the usual expectations of how late was too late to call. “Hey,” Sam croaked, wondering whose tight voice that was.

“You sound like hell,” Steve told him.

“I feel like ten pounds of crap stuffed into a five-pound sack and lit on fire.”

“That good, huh?”

“Riley RSVP’ed yes to the wedding,” Sam told him flatly.

“Oh. Crap.”

“Yeah.” Sam scrubbed his face with his palm and turned down the volume on his show.

“Can’t she talk to him and explain that his RSVP expired when he broke up with her brother?”

“She thinks it will be awkward, and she’s under a lot of stress.”

“Bull. Ridiculous. You’re her _brother._ ” And Sam knew Steve was reaching that weird point of no return of “righteous rage” on his behalf, like that time when Brock told everyone that Coach Fury only picked Sam for first string on the that football season because he was Black. Steve’s nose was swollen to twice its normal size and his eyes resembled a raccoon’s after the resultant scuffle, and Sam felt horrible afterward, sitting with Steve in the nurse’s office while he held an ice bag to his face, nose plugged up with gauze to staunch the bleeding. 

“I had ‘im on the ropes,” Steve insisted. The word sounded like “robes” with his nose all stuffed like that.

“Sure you did.” Sam bumped him lightly with his elbow. “Your mom’s gonna throw a fit when she sees your shirt.”

“Peroxide will get it right out. We keep a whole ton of it at our house.” Because of course Sarah would. There were perks to having an RN for a mom.

“Yeah. So.” Sam reached down hesitantly, pausing for a moment, then wrapped his hand around Steve’s knobby wrist, giving it a squeeze. “Thanks, man.”

“Sure.” He winced. “Ow.”

Steve was just glad it hadn’t happened before Picture Day.

“I told Ray-Anne I’m skipping the wedding.”

“Whoa. What? Aw, Sam. No. No, no, no. You can’t. You just _can’t._ ” Ray-Anne had already blown up his phone with calls and texts, all of which he was steadfastly ignoring, feeling a bit of mean satisfaction at the sight of the all caps apologies and sad emojis. 

Ray-Anne was his older sister. Where did she get off trying to avoid offending his ex over not letting her brother have his heart broken all over again when he showed up all spiffed up with Mr. Whitening Strips and Burberry Cologne in tow?

“Ray-Anne’s gonna be beside herself if you don’t go,” Steve reminded him. “She loves you. She just put her foot in her mouth. She _loves_ you, Sam. C’mon. Cut her some slack. Do her a solid and stand up at her wedding. Be the big man, here.”

“I’m not even the best man. I’m just helping her have an even number,” Sam pointed.

“Baloney. You know that woman would never dream of tying the knot without her baby brother smiling off to the side, showing off those dimples and pearly whites and looking awesome in a tux. She’s proud of you. You know that. ‘My little brother Sam, the school psychologist.’ She makes a fuss over you whenever she tells anyone else about you.”

That appeased Sam for a moment. Somewhat.

“I just don’t think I can do this.” Sam’s voice was failing him, and he felt heat behind his eyes, and his mouth tasted so dry. 

“Sam? You okay?”

“Nope.” He tried to inject some cheer into his voice, but a tear slipped free and darted down his cheek, and there it was, there was that avalanche of pressure leaving his chest, replacing itself with a hollow ache. “Ray… Ray doesn’t understand, Steve, she just… doesn’t…”

“Hey. Sam. Sam,” Steve attempted. “C’mon. It’s okay. Sammy.”

“It’s not. Okay? It’s not, Steven.”

Steve’s sigh was heavy. “It’s a wedding. I know it’s her big day, but that doesn’t mean you just sit there and let yourself get run over, Sam.”

“It’s her day,” Sam told him, struggling, feeling his breath shake its way out of his chest. “I’m just tired, Steve.”

“You’re up too late. This might look better in the morning.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Sam wiped his cheeks with the heel of his palm; the tears already felt clammy and cool on his skin.

“Your feelings matter,” Steve told him. “They do. Okay?”

“Sure, they do.”

The call abruptly dropped. Sam glanced down at his phone, wondering what happened. “Steve?” he muttered. “The heck…?”

His screen flashed at him, beeping with the message that he had a FaceTime message. _Accept?_

Sam thumbed the green button, and in moments, Steve’s concerned face swam into view. He looked predictably disheveled, but his face was alert. “Sam, please hear me out. You’re allowed to ask your sister to tell him to kiss off. You’re family. Maybe Riley would have eventually been family if he’d stuck around.”

Sam laughed mirthlessly. That was the other thing: Sam’s parents had _liked_ Riley. He had parents in the military, too. Sam’s parents accepted that he was gay with some stumbling, but they had seemed relieved at how stable and normal Riley was. If their son had to have a boyfriend, _this_ was the boyfriend that he should have. Riley said all the right things, had all the right goals, he was hardworking and made generous income. He had impeccable manners and treated Sam’s mom like she was his own. Sam’s father took it in stride. His mother, by contrast, had reverted to treating Sam like he was eight years old. For weeks, she occupied his space, dropping by with covered dishes and dragging him to church and cleaning his apartment when he would let his chores slip, too distracted to focus on self care.

“You know I’m right,” Steve told him. “You know it tears me up when you cry,” he added, and he gave Sam a gentle smile, cajoling and just for him. 

Sam huffed another laugh and wiped at his eyes again, since they just wouldn’t stop leaking. His nose was running, too, which didn’t help.

“Tell her you’re going to be in her wedding. Patch things up with Ray, Sam. Okay?”

“It’s just… I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m just trying to climb out of this great, big hole. Or, more like I’m shouting down a well. I don’t expect her to understand.”

“It’s okay to expect her to understand, though. She’s getting married, but she’s still your sister.”

Sam sighed.

“You gonna be okay?”

“No. No, not really.”

“If I call you tomorrow morning, will you promise to pick up?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

Because that request was fair, because Sam might be able to digest this after some sleep, and maybe the whole world wouldn’t feel like it was crapping on him. 

“I’ll even call you sickeningly early. You love being an early riser.”

“I’m a morning person.”

“And I love you, anyway, _despite_ that,” Steve told him. His blue eyes crinkled, and his full, pink mouth twisted into its characteristic, lopsided smile.

Sam felt his stomach unknot the longer they spoke. Steve’s voice was soothing, and it helped to see his reactions to his words, and the soft glow flickering over his face in the dark, as though Steve, too, was watching TV.

“What’s on TV at your place?”

“Community.”

“Nice.”

“Ray-Anne even asked me who I was taking to the wedding. Like my having a date was going to help.”

Steve looked thoughtful. “Eh. Well. Maybe it will.”

“Pffft… Uh-uh. I’m not letting her out of this that easily, Steve. I’m not going to snap up a date at the last minute just to ease her guilty conscience.”

“Well, what’s this ‘last minute’ stuff?”

“I’m not going to find a date this late in the game!”

“Uh. Yeah. You already have.”

“What?” Sam’s brows drew together. 

“Clint and Nat were convinced,” Steve reminded him. 

Clint. Steve’s apartment. The kiss by the door. Sam set his phone down for a moment and wiped his face.

What was he suggesting?

“Sam?” Steve’s voice sounded muffled against the couch cushions.

Sam picked it back up and shot Steve his Sunday best You Had Better Not be Messing with Me Look. “Steven Grant Rogers. Are you suggesting that you go as my _date_ to my sister’s wedding?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. Not to mention the rehearsal dinner. And the bachelor party, if Ray-Anne’s letting Truman have one-“

“I’m planning it with his older brother, so the answer is yes, to that, at least.”

“And the engagement lunch? Isn’t your mom having one of those?”

“It’s a yard party,” Sam clarified. “Steve. You don’t have to do all that.”

“Don’t have to. But it’s not the worst plan in the world.”

Because this took them back to their plan, such as it was. Convincing Nat and Clint, in case they ran into Riley again. And now, convincing Sam’s parents. His sister, even though she knew Sam too well and would no doubt figure out what was up. Convincing their friends when they showed up at the wedding and drank too much wine at the reception and danced the Macarena badly and formed a Soul Train tunnel. 

It could end up being a mess.

They could get their stories wrong. They could put their collective foot in their collective mouth. Sam and Steve. Partners in crime. Pulling a fast one on their friends for the sake of telling his ex-boyfriend to kiss off. Maybe even show him what he was missing. Sam wasn’t above spite. He wasn’t a saint, fer cryin’ out loud.

This could go _so badly_.

For a moment, he remembered the kiss by the door. The way Steve held onto him. How he tasted. His faint huff of surprise and the way his lips stroked his, soft and inviting. Asking his permission. 

It was nice.

“Okay. It’s not the worst plan.”

“I know.”

“I’m in.”


	3. Then It Must Be a Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can go get something else?” 
> 
> “No, no. I’m almost ready to go.”
> 
> Steve’s skin was rosy and dewy, and his hair was damp, dark blond and sticking up in tufts and cowlicks. He was wearing khakis, socks and an undershirt, revealing those knobby collarbones and shoulders, long, lean arms and the top of the scar on his chest where he’d had a hole in his heart repaired as an infant. The peaks of his nipples were visible through the thin weave, and Sam tried not to stare. Steve’s bare skin was distracting him.
> 
> “That’s almost ready, huh?”
> 
> “Hey, I bathed. That’s _huge_ , Wilson.” Steve headed back into his bedroom with his drink; Sam took small comfort in the fact that he didn’t throw it out.
> 
> “You spoil me, Steve.”
> 
> “Anything for the man of my dreams,” Steve sang cheerfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little hard on Ray-Anne last chapter. I will fix that. I am also introducing Truman and Mama Wilson. She’s too sassy to leave out of this.
> 
> Brief scene of past character death. Be warned. But after that, this gets a little ridiculous. This chapter is more "filler" than anything else. Thanks for reading, if you choose to continue.

So, game night was a thing.

As much as Steve tended to keep to himself, his roommate loved bringing a constant stream of guests through their apartment, and they mutually agreed that Game Night with Nat, Sam, Tony and Rhodey was an acceptable amount of socialization for Steve, just enough that they wouldn’t put out an APB. Steve made himself scarce when Clint ordered Pay-per-View fights and invited his coworkers, his brother, and his crazy uncle Bob over for beer. That was the side of Clint and his uncle that Steve didn’t need to see. But Game Night was low-key, Natasha kept Clint on a short tether, and Steve inevitably laughed so hard that he needed his inhaler. Cards Against Humanity, Sorry, Scrabble (Clint always built the dirtiest words he could manage with his tiles, but Nat always stole the triple word score), Pictionary (Steve was the best artist, but Clint always came up with phrases that allowed him to draw dick pics, because one-track mind, Clint) and Scattergories were spread across the table amidst bowls of snacks and cans of Blue Moon Ale (Nat always brought over a pack of Guinness, but she was the only one with a stomach for it). Steve always made the courtesy visit to his neighbors next to them and across the hall to warn them that they might get a little loud, and he frequently bribed them with baked goods as a sign of good will. America, the young mother across the way, smiled at him as he handed over the disposable tin pan of brownies.

“Game night?” she inquired.

“Game night.”

“Don’t lose all of your pennies this time, Steve.”

“I know. And those are nut-free,” he added, nodding to the pan.

“Yay. David will be _thrilled_.” Her son had a nut allergy. Steve was a conscientious baker. He understood allergies.

Steve lingered in the doorway when he visited the Sousas. Peggy answered the door, resplendent in a shell pink sweater set and pin-curled hair. Her brown eyes crinkled when she greeted him at the door.

“Game night means brownie night,” she announced.

“Of course, Pegs. You’re looking pretty swell.”

“Oh, stop.” But she was eating it up. “It’s not nice to tease an old woman.”

“I’m not! You’re outta my league.”

“She sure is,” Daniel rumbled as he met his wife at the door, wrapping his arm around her stooped shoulders and kissing her temple. Both of them were retired CIA; it had thrilled Steve to learn that Peggy had once been a field agent. Daniel had done forensics research after he was caught in a blast that left his leg full of shrapnel. They were both still spry and full of spit and vinegar. Steve always enjoyed those visits. “And don’t you forget it, pal.”

“No, sir,” Steve agreed, and he was satisfied when Daniel went to peel back the foil, but Peggy lightly smacked his hand.

“You haven’t had your supper yet.”

“Life’s short,” he told her simply. “Eat dessert first.” He winked at Steve. “And I had a different dessert in mind, anyway…”

“Oh, you!” This time Peggy swatted him in earnest, but her eyes were twinkling, and her smile stole years from her face.

“Enjoy your game night,” Daniel told him.

“Sure will,” Steve promised. 

“Good evening, darling. Don’t stay up too late.”

Steve headed back to his apartment and finished tidying it up, making it just decent enough (tossing the recycling, dishes, and mopping up the halo of piss from around the toilet) and tossing all of Clint’s dirty clothes into his hamper where they belonged. Clint was across town picking up a few essentials from Safeway and a couple of pizzas. Steve took the time to shower and groom himself, changing into a comfortable guayabera shirt and relaxed fit jeans. He sprayed on a hint of cologne out of habit, then paused. _Would Sam like it?_

Where the heck did that thought come from?

Steve shook it off. Right. Their plan. He sighed to himself as he scrunched and combed a little product into his hair and brushed his teeth. Steve wondered if Sam was all in, still, or if he felt it better to cut his losses. But he thought back to the bath store, the tension in Sam’s face, the defeat…

Nope. Steve was all in. Sam was his best friend, and they weren’t hurting anybody with a little subterfuge. There was still time to back out. Steve continued to waffle with the idea as he emptied the dishwasher and retrieved clean glasses. He kept coming back to the same conclusion: Help Sam. Show Riley what he’d given up. And in the process, put a smile back on Sam’s face.

That, more than anything, strengthened Steve’s resolve.

Steve went into the closet and pulled down the stack of board games from the shelf, wavering and doing a brief balancing act when they shifted and almost slid out of his arms. “Geez… whew.” He brought them into the living room and laid them on the coffee table, leaving Scrabble on top of the heap. Drunk Scrabble with Sam was fun, too. Things started well enough once he placed those first few words on the board, but once Sam’s tiles ran short and he’d had a couple of beers, anything resembling decorum or sportsmanship flew right out the window. Steve wasn’t sure their friendship would survive Sam’s ‘Q’ tile when he challenged him with the dictionary. 

Nat showed up first, Guinness tucked under one arm, Chanel bag slung over the other and dressed in criminally tight black Calvin Kleins and a North Face dri-fit pullover that matched her eyes. When Steve undid the chain lock on the door to let her in, she muttered “Dead bolts. You and Clint need dead bolts. Good ones. Especially in this neighborhood. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Nat. It’s me and _Clint_.” He waved his arms around the apartment. “The burglars would get lost in the mess.”

“My feet aren’t sticking to the floor. I’m impressed.”

“I can vouch for the living room,” Steve assured her. “After that, it gets a little sketchy.”

Nat’s nose crinkled briefly in her best “Ew!” face. “Are you planning to feed us? Want me to order some takeout?”

“Clint’s taking care of it.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “You let Barton go out for Guido’s the same day that I go back on Paleo?”

Steve shuddered. He already had a skinny frame and had an abiding love of carbs, the starchier, the better. “That diet’s brutal. You’ve got, like, no fat _anywhere_.”

“It’s not about losing weight. It’s about respecting my health enough to change my habits. You’re always sick, Steve,” she accused. “It would probably help you. Let me make you my turkey sausage and cauliflower rice one of these nights. I’ll convert you. I promise.”

“Come over to the dark side. We have pizza,” he countered. 

Nat pouted. “Traitor.”

“You’ll have to pry Guido’s all meat pie out of my cold, dead hands,” he assured her. 

“They will be cold and dead if you keep eating that garbage.” Nat set down the beer and put away her purse. She sat on the couch and demurely crossed her legs, giving Steve a knowing look. _Uh-oh._

“So.” Her voice was a smooth purr. “What’s this I hear about you and Wilson?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What ‘Me and Wilson?’”

“I’ll beat it out of you if I have to,” she promised.

Steve held out his hands in surrender. “No need to get violent about it, Romanoff. It’s no big deal.”

“Which means that it _is_ a big deal,” she countered, raising one perfectly groomed auburn brow. “Clint said you two looked mighty cozy the other day. Riley and his new trophy boyfriend had the same impression when I ran into them. Can’t imagine _why_.”

“Depends on what they thought they saw,” Steve teased, but he felt his cheeks heating up and knew he was turning into a raspberry.

“Hmmmm. I think Clint saw you two sucking face.” Then she shook her finger at him. “No. Wait. ‘Canoodling’ was the term he used.”

“Because underneath that boyish exterior, Clint’s really an eighty-year-old who spouts words like ‘canoodling.’”

“So were you?”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, wishing Sam were here so that he wouldn’t slip up. Their stories had to match. Their reactions had to coincide, there had to be no question. Nat wouldn’t take it too hard later on when she eventually found out – and she would – that they were pulling her leg to get the better of Sam’s ex, but in the meantime, Steve didn’t want to spin too tall of a tale for Nat. “I’m gonna make sure we have ice,” Steve said instead.

“C’mon, Steve.”

“You don’t need it for your horse piss…I mean, Guinness,” he joked. She gave him a dead-eyed look.

“Cute. You think you’re cute.” Nat sighed, then shook her head. Her smile was fond. “Y’know, Rogers, some people would think that by not answering the question, you’re kinda answering it.”

“Yup. Still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Steve,” she cajoled, folding her arms. “Did. You. Kiss. Sam?”

Steve’s eyes flitted away, and he tried to hide his smile.

“Oh! I KNEW IT!”

“What’s there to know?” But, yeah. His stomach. What was with all the butterflies? There was just this, this weird glow inside him, like having someone catch you doodling in your notebook margins in junior high, your crush’s scratchy initials under your own, tucked in a crooked heart drawn in Bic pen. Nat’s smirk was making him knot up, but this. Yeah, _this_. Nat was convinced. Score one for Sam-and-Steve.

Sam and Steve.

The concept shouldn’t have made him as giddy as he was feeling as he emptied ice cubes from the dispenser into a bucket.

“Hope your lips weren’t chapped. Seriously, Steve. Want some of my Burt’s Bees? Your mouth looks all crunchy-“

“They weren’t chapped… geez, Nat!”

He panicked for a moment. Did they look chapped? Would Sam be turned off by them?

“Hey, you need all the help you can get. You know it’s been a dog’s age since you kissed anybody, Rogers.”

“Why are we friends again, Natasha?”

“Because I can’t leave my boyfriend to his own devices, and by extension, you need supervision, too.”

“Do _not._ ”

“Awwww, muffin,” she crooned in response to his pout and narrowed eyes, patting his cheek. “Do, too.

She was interrupted from turning Steve another ten shades of red by the sound of the door being kicked by Clint, well known for not wanting to put down any of his parcels long enough to dig out his keys. “Coming, I’m coming, you heathen,” Natasha called out. “Hold your horses!

“Hurry up!” Clint nagged from the other side of the door, and sure enough, Steve heard the rustling of plastic bags and cardboard boxes being shuffled. Natasha jerked the door open when he was mid-kick, and he stood there flustered and grinning. “There’s my reason for living,” he claimed.

Nat gave him a bored look. “You’re deficient. Why do you always do this?” She relieved him of the pizzas and one of the bags and ducked his attempt at a kiss.

“What? What?? No lovin’? Did you see that, Steve? And I came home bearing gifts!”

“She’s cruel,” Steve agreed, winking at Nat, who stuck her tongue out at him as she unpacked the bags.

“Ooh. Salt and vinegar chips,” she murmured. “Yum.”

“Anything for my baby doll,” Clint told her, and this time, she tugged him over by his shirt collar and made a sickening display of kissing him. Steve pretended to gag.

“That’s excessive. So unnecessary.”

“What’s unnecessary?” Sam asked as he drifted inside, since the door was still ajar. 

Steve straightened his glasses, shaking his head. “These two. Always slobbering all over each other like a couple of St. Bernards.”

“Pfft… you’re just jealous,” Nat told them without looking at them, smiling up at Clint, who looked just as rapt. He made a pleased sound as his palms molded around her small waist and tugged her against him.

Sam rubbed his nape, tsking under his breath. “Y’all finished carrying on and making a scene?”

“Yeah, some of us aren’t into PDA,” Steve added.

Clint’s head swiveled around, and he gave them a dubious look. “Coulda fooled me. What about that little show by the door last time?”

“Canoodling,” Nat said.

“Canoodling! Exactly,” Clint said, grinning in triumph. “Two of ya are a couple of sticks in the mud. G’wan, Rogers. Quit leaving Sammy hanging. Lay one on ‘im!”

Sam glanced at Steve, biting his lip. Steve rubbed his nape. “Really?” he begged.

“Maybe we’re not all gross like y’all,” Sam teased, but he sidled up to Steve in the kitchen, brown eyes roaming over him.

He looked nice. Sam liked Steve in open-necked, collared shirts and v-necks that showed off the long line of his throat. Steve was flushed, one of his tells that Nat had been giving him a hard time. Sam decided he got there just in time to rescue him. And, of course, to put their plan into action. Sam nodded at Steve. “I know how my man feels about me without having to make a scene,” Sam told them proudly.

“Wow. The romance didn’t last long, did it?” Natasha looked bored again, throwing up her hands.

“Wow. That thrill’s already gone? It’s been, what? Five minutes?” Clint pretended to check his watch. “You’re supposed to give it at last six months before it fizzles… um. Yeah. No. Okay, for _other_ couples. Not us,” Clint said, noticing the way that Nat folded her arms and set her jaw. “Heh. Anyway… no big deal. Just givin’ you guys a hard time,” Clint decided. 

But Steve was giving Sam a look, rapt and soft. “Scrabble first?” Steve asked him.

“Rhodes said he wanted to beat my socks off at Trivial Pursuit this time.”

“He and Tony have most of the cards memorized by now,” Steve pointed out.

“Gotta get one of the newer editions,” Sam said with a shrug. Sam gave Steve a little shove. “That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna mop the floor with you at Scrabble, Sunshine. I’m gonna use that ‘Q’ tile. Just you wait.”

“And I will challenge you, Samuel. I will challenge, and you’ll totally cut up and throw a tantrum after I make you clear your illegal, imaginary ‘Q’ word from the board, and you’ll pout in the corner licking your wounds while Nat beats the pants off of all of us again.”

“See! Steve has plans for Sam’s pants,” Clint told Nat. She smiled and shook her head.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, dear.”

But Sam and Steve both blushed and broke apart from each other at the mention of Sam’s pants… particularly, the notion of them being “beaten off.” ( _Off. Sam’s pants._ Steve’s whole face was on fire, damn it.)

“Save the lover’s quarrel for after the beer,” Nat suggested to them when Sam and Steve got into a shoving match at the counter over the plan for the first round of Scrabble. Sam reached and slung his arm around Steve’s neck, getting him in a headlock. Steve’s body felt a storm of different reactions, stubborn urge to shove Sam off of him, since their grapple only emphasized the size difference between them, warring with the way his skin tingled against him, absorbing his heat, feeling his firm, solid muscle beneath his thin shirt.

Yeah. It was awkward.

“Quit it,” Steve muttered. Sam chuckled, not letting Steve go until he ruffled his carefully styled hair.

“You’re not mad at me. You looooooove me,” Sam teased, giving Steve that smile. _Ugh_ That smile. Steve was such a sucker for it.

Rhodey and Tony showed up, unburying Trivial Pursuit from the pile of games, but Nat put the kibosh on it from the start.

“No. You two are insufferable. Especially with the science questions.”

“Booooooo!” Tony jeered, cupping his hand around his mouth. Rhodey looked hurt.

“That’s not very nice. Clint, Romanoff’s being mean.”

“Romanoff’s being Romanoff,” Steve corrected him, since he’d already been stung that night. Nat mimed wiping away tears with the edge of her knuckle. Sam was already setting out the Scrabble board and racks around the table, gathering up the stray tiles that had slipped loose from the bag.

“Oh, grow a pair, Rogers. All of you need to. I’m at Game Night with a bunch of cry babies.”

“I have a pair,” Tony murmured in a voice just shy of a whine.

“Nat’s are bigger,” Clint told them, voice muffled around the half a slice of pizza that he’d crammed into his mouth. They paused to eat, digging into the pizzas and cracking open cans of beer. Sam and Steve shared the loveseat out of long habit, while their friends occupied the sectional sofa and recliner. 

“Joined at the hip,” Clint muttered around a mouthful of all meat combo.

“What was that?” Rhodey prodded, his own slice halfway to his mouth.

“What’s Barton babbling about, now?” Tony glanced over at Nat for an explanation, earning himself her smirk.

“There’s something our friends haven’t shared with us about their current status,” Nat said.

Tony’s brows flew into his hairline. Rhodey set his pizza back down. “Do tell.”

“They’re canoodling,” Clint told them, proud of himself for working that word back into the conversation with a new audience.

“Ca-whatting?” Rhodey looked confused, looking to Tony for an explanation.

“Um, I’m gonna go out on a limb on this one,” Tony began, “and assume that means they’re… how can I put this? More than bros.”

“Canoodling!” Clint piped up.

“It’s just getting old now, Barton,” Steve promised.

“I’m hearing ‘noodling’ and getting weird mental images,” Rhodey said. “But, yeah… wow. So… you two. Really?”

“What?” Tony elbowed him. “It’s cute. They’re cute together.”

“They’re grown men. It’s fine and dandy if they want to ‘canoodle,’ but you won’t convince me that it’s ‘cute.’” Rhodey made air quotes around it. “And I get the feeling that word has a different meaning than Clint thinks it does.”

“They’re doing it now,” Clint said. “See?”

Sam felt his face heat up when he took mental inventory of the picture he and his best friend made.

Sam’s arm was draped over the top of the loveseat. No big deal, he usually did that, anyway. But… wow. It was practically around Steve’s shoulders, and his knee was pressed against Steve’s thigh where he’d shifted his weight, and he felt his warmth through the rough denim of his jeans.

“No, we’re not-“ Sam’s voice sounded a lot like stammering to his own ears.

His words ended abruptly when Steve’s hand landed on his knee, giving it a squeeze. He adjusted his glasses and smiled at Tony and Rhodey, even leaning in toward Sam on the couch, compromising the polite space between them even further.

Clint and Nat looked satisfied.

“-canoodling,” Sam finished, even though no one believed him, now.

Sam ducked his head against what he knew was coming.

“Wilson, you sly dog, you!”

“How long has this been going on?”

“We all saw this coming, right? Right?”

Sam cleared his throat and hazarded a glance at Steve. His blue eyes were dancing with laughter, and he cocked his head briefly. He tried to maintain a bland look. Sam huffed, and he played along.

His arm slid down from the couch. Steve was a perfect, easy fit.

“Oooooooooooo!” their friends chorused.

“That’s… that looks like canoodling,” Tony decided.

“What?” Steve asked innocently, glancing up at Sam, urging him silently to back him up.

“Just seemed like it was time to take what we had a step further,” Sam explained. Steve beamed, giving Sam’s knee another squeeze just for good measure, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek against the spark of interest that zoomed straight through his groin. _Damn it, Steve. Quit it!_

“Okay,” Rhodey conceded, shaking his head but offering them a smile that was almost fond. “It’s kinda cute.”

“You two wanna actually play Scrabble instead of getting all mushy on us?” Nat asked.

“Ready whenever you are,” Steve assured her.

They spread themselves around the Scrabble board, which allowed Sam and Steve to separate and avoid any further shamming for a little while, at least.

They slowly tiled the Scrabble board. Tony took the first turn and built the word “GEARS,” looking very pleased with himself. Rhodey looked just as smug when he built “LEG” from it and selected three more tiles, shaking the bag and “wishing” on the pieces inside.

“So how long has this been going on, again?” Nat asked, since they hadn’t actually answered the question. Steve pretended his tile rack was very, very interesting.

“Not super long,” he said with a shrug.

“So… how long does that make you guys an actual _couple_ -“

“Not just looking all gooey around each other, either, like you usually do,” Rhodey clarified. “But actually ‘dating,’ dating.”

Gooey?

Sam and Steve shot each other a look of surprise, flummoxed for the moment.

“Uh…”

“We’re not ‘gooey!’”

“Look up ‘gooey’ in the dictionary, and there’s a picture of Wilson here looking like he wants to write poetry about Rogers’ baby blues,” Tony said without pause.

“Right?” Clint cut in, grinning as he scooped up fragments of sausage from his plate and tucked them into his mouth, using his clean hand to rearrange his tiles. “We’re all seen that look!”

Sam choked on his sip of beer, accidentally inhaling a gulp of it. His eyes and throat burned, and he coughed and sputtered while Steve – Lord help him – began to alternately pound and rub his back, which wasn’t helping _at all_.

What were they saying?

How were they even having this conversation?

“Nobody’s…*kaffkaff* writing any poetry,” he argued.

“Nobody but Rogers,” Nat told him simply. “Bet he doodles it in a little notebook and writes your initials inside little hearts.”

One of the throw pillows from the sofa earned its name when Steve chucked it at her head.

“You guys are the worst,” Steve told them all.

The game grew ugly as they ran out of popular consonants. Sam, however, crowed in triumph as he built the word “QUEUE.”

“Aw, yeah! There it is! You knew it was coming! Who’s the Scrabble master?” He laid down the tiles, got up and began his patented Victory Dance around the living room.

“That’s not how you spell queue,” Rhodey argued, then squinted. “… is it?”

“Challenge me. Go on. You know you want to.”

“That’s the spelling,” Steve agreed, sighing in disgust. Because this was Sam, Sam was _insufferable_ when it came to using unpopular consonants, and Steve actually got a kick out of him when he was cutting up.

“IN YOUR FACE!”

“Okay, that’s just excessive.” And the Victory Dance was ridiculous, End Zone-ish and slightly twerkful. “Okay. Just stop.”

(Steve wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed it.)

They finished Scrabble, and despite using all of his uncommon consonants, Sam lost to Nat, who kept nabbing the triple word scores. They played Trivial Pursuit next. Predictably, Tony won, but by that time everyone had enough beer not to care. They took turns passing the yawn around the table, since it was contagious, and Steve looked ready to collapse. He sat back from the table and leaned against the loveseat, closing his eyes.

“I’m beat.”

“I bet,” Sam agreed. “Another commission?”

“Yeah. Pulled another all-nighter on a book jacket for a YA novel.”

“Is it corny?”

“Hey! Nothing I draw is corny, pal.”

“I meant the book, sweetie pie,” Sam teased, and Steve blushed at the use of the nickname. Sam was ridiculous.

Yet, “sweetie pie” could grow on him. If, well, yeah. Anyway. It could grow on him, maybe.

“Kinda is,” Steve yawned. “God. I’m about done.”

“Then I think we’re ready to roll, too,” Rhodey decided.

“Guy who drives is the boss. I came with him,” Tony mentioned.

“Want help cleaning up?” Nat decided to take up her usual perch on Clint’s lap, since the games had drawn to a close.

“Don’t _have_ to,” Clint offered. “Could, if you wanted.”

“So that’s a yes.” He turned his face up for her kiss before she hopped back up from his lap and began gathering dirty plates and empty boxes.

"So, hey. Steve," Sam murmured as Tony and James got up and retrieved their jackets. His voice was low and furtive, and he was sitting on the love seat, picking at his fingernail. “I wanted to know if you were busy tomorrow.”

“I can mess around a little tomorrow,” Steve allowed, craning his neck up to really look at him. Sam looked tense, and of _course_ it was wedding related.

“Mama is having the yard party we talked about. I might have mentioned you might come, too.”

Steve’s lips curled up in a little smile. “Yeah. You were right. I might. Especially if she’s making her cornbread.”

“Oh, you know it. And red beans, green beans, her ambrosia salad-“

“No fair, man. I’m stuffed, and you’re making me hungry again!”

Sam chuckled. “So, it’s at four.”

“Sounds good.”

“I can pick you up.”

Steve nodded and stared down into his lap.

“And maybe you’ll actually comb your hair first. Don’t be your usual hot mess.” Sam tousled his blond waves, and Steve waved him off, swatting at his hand, but still flushed because, really, Sam’s touch felt good. But Rhodey and Tony looked up from saying good night to Clint and Nat, and Rhodey grinned.

“Now, you two behave. I know you can’t contain yourselves, but for all our sakes, please do.”

“You’re asking too much of me, Rhodes,” Sam deadpanned. “I can’t help myself around Sweetie Pie!” Steve groaned in surprised disgust as Sam reached down and got him a headlock, squooshed his face and gave him sloppy, smoochy-sounding kisses on his cheek.

“Eww! EW! Help! NAT! Save me!” It tickled, and Steve couldn’t stop laughing at his friends’ combined, incredulous amusement, and at Sam, for the simple reason that he knew he was enjoying giving them a show.

“That’s our cue to go,” Tony pronounced.

“Yeah, I’m good,” James agreed. He clapped Clint on the back, pecked Nat on the cheek, and both men were off.

“You’re a goof,” Steve muttered. Sam huffed and released him, but not before reaching out to muss his hair again.

The memory of Sam’s touch lingered with him for the rest of the night. His lips were soft; Nat would have been impressed.

*

“Hey, you’re early,” Steve remarked as he opened the door to Sam. “I was just getting out of the… shower.” He peered down at the cup that Sam pressed into his hand. “Okay. Thanks? What’s with the coffee?”

“It’s gonna be a full house at Mom and Pop’s,” Sam warned. “My great aunts are showing up. The house is going to be _crawling_ with nieces and nephews. Just wanted to give you fair warning and medicate you to take the edge off.”

“Sounds like a blast.” Sam’s family could be loud, but they were nice. 

“Cousin Ray’s bringing the Wii. That means endless rounds of Mario Kart and lots of screaming.”

“Guess I’d better drink this now,” Steve agreed. He took a sip and made a face. “What’s in it?”

“Coconut milk. It was the special.” Sam looked worried. “That’s your not thrilled face.”

“It’s… coconutty,” Steve told him. “But it’s coffee.”

“We can go get something else?” 

“No, no. I’m almost ready to go.”

Steve’s skin was rosy and dewy, and his hair was damp, dark blond and sticking up in tufts and cowlicks. He was wearing khakis, socks and an undershirt, revealing those knobby collarbones and shoulders, long, lean arms and the top of the scar on his chest where he’d had a hole in his heart repaired as an infant. The peaks of his nipples were visible through the thin weave, and Sam tried not to stare. Steve’s bare skin was distracting him.

“That’s almost ready, huh?”

“Hey, I bathed. That’s _huge_ , Wilson.” Steve headed back into his bedroom with his drink; Sam took small comfort in the fact that he didn’t throw it out.

“You spoil me, Steve.”

“Anything for the man of my dreams,” Steve sang cheerfully. Sam snorted. He folded his arms and wandered around Steve’s apartment, staring as he often did at his framed drawings and prints. His favorite was a triptych of prints of watercolor studies he had done of the park, focusing on a small foot bridge and a small creek dappled with leaves; the same creek from the perspective of the picnic tables and a flock of geese that settled in the grass to feast; a close-up of a toddler throwing handfuls of crackers toward the flock from an expensive-looking stroller. Steve gave the scene loving attention to detail, creating sunlight from white spaces and transparent washes, dry brushing in slender twigs and leaf veins and feathers, capturing the shine of metal and luminous water with complex layers of color. Steve’s artwork drew the viewer in, at once inviting and telling the whole story, inviting you to stay for coffee and relieve the memory as if you were there.

“What d’you want me to wear, Sam? Any requests?”

“It’s not fancy.”

“You already look nicer than I do.” Sam was wearing a long-sleeved polo tucked into a pair of khakis, eschewing his sneakers for loafers.

“Whatever you put on will be fine.”

He listened to Steve moving around in his room, pulling out drawers and opening his closet, rummaging and sliding hangers over the rack. Sam continued browsing through the assorted frames on the wall. There was an old black-and-white photo of Sarah framed and hanging up over the couch; she looked young and fresh-faced, with her blonde hair hanging past her shoulders in loose, feathered waves like Farrah Fawcett. She was hugging a very tiny Steve, who had long bangs falling into his eyes, a couple of baby teeth missing, and a very spiffy pair of corduroy Osh Kosh overalls. “Stylin,’” Sam murmured. He smiled at the boy he’d been, at the same spark he always had, so clearly inherited from his mother.

Steve still had his bad days. Sam missed Sarah Rogers fiercely, and it hit him so hard when Steve lost her. What seemed like a troublesome cough grew into pneumonia. After years of maintaining almost sterile levels of cleanliness in her home, she developed a MRSA infection and rapidly grew septic. Those last few days at the hospital wore Steve down to his last reserves. He was skinny, raccoon-eyed from exhaustion, his skin broken out from bad fast food and offerings from the hospital cafeteria, and he had the scruffy beginnings of a sandy beard. Sam never wanted to see his eyes look like that again, hollow and puffy, bleak and devoid of hope.

Sam had a spare key to Steve’s apartment. He frequently brought Steve clothes and his mail while he slept over at the hospital, taking turns with Clint. Visiting hours found Steve and Sam, both garbed in yellow isolation gowns, reading to Sarah or scanning through the hospital’s horrible choice of cable channels. The worst part was the loss of hope. Sarah’s long periods of somnolence, and Steve’s dogged insistence that her doctor’s weren’t running the right tests, that they needed to try a different med, and were they planning to do another bronch? No one wanted to tell him to let go. All you had to do was know Steve and his devotion to his mother, to witness their bond, to know that he would never listen.

When Sarah’s life support was turned off, the nurse asked Steve if he wanted to lay his head against her chest to hear her final heartbeats. Sam asked Steve if he wanted him to leave, to give him those last few minutes. But Steve’s face was wrecked, eyes bloodshot and brimming, and his voice was a hoarse rasp.

“Please. Don’t go, Sam, I-I can’t, just…”

"I'm not. I won’t. I won’t go.” The words felt insufficient as they stumbled from his lips, and he hoped Steve didn’t hear the catch in his voice. Steve needed his strength, and all he could offer him was the firm grip of his hand when the nurse lowered the bedrail to let Steve sit back down on the uncomfortable, cold vinyl chair and place his head against Sarah’s struggling heart. He was peaceful for that final minute. Sam felt Steve’s body relax as he whispered to his mother that it was all right, that she could rest. “I love you. I love you so much, Mom. Okay?” Because that was all he could do, and Sam hated feeling that helpless in the face of Steve’s grief, but the moment was precious, and Steve had no one else, no other family. It meant so much that Steve allowed him the privilege of staying with them and allowing him to say his own goodbyes. Sam knew the moment Sarah breathed her last. Steve’s fingers clamped around his in a death grip and the shuddering breath that broke free from his chest was anguished, swelling into a shrill sob.

The staff gave him a few more minutes uninterrupted. It was only when Steve finally sat upright and reached up to smooth Sarah’s hair that he finally looked up at Sam, and Steve numbly handed Sam the box of Kleenex. Sam felt the clammy trails cooling on his cheeks, and his chest felt so raw, and he set down the box, needing his hands to be empty when he tugged Steve into his embrace. Sam loved Sarah Rogers, his second mother and an inspiring force in his life. His own breathing left him in hitching bursts. Steve’s tears dampened the collar of his shirt, and Sam’s nose was running, but he didn’t give a damn. 

‘We’ll get through this. She loved you so much,” Sam told him, and he was holding him so tight, trying to share his warmth and strength, feeling the bumps of Steve’s spine through his shirt as he rubbed his back in soothing strokes.

“I don’t know what to do, Sam. I don’t know what to do with this. I miss her so much. I can’t… I just can’t-“

“I won’t leave you.”

“Okay.”

“I won’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Sam.” No more words would come. Steve’s sharpest impressions of that day that still lingered with him were the sounds of his mother’s heartbeat, the familiar scent of her skin, of her hair spread in fine, graying blonde skeins across the pillow and the faint smile on her lips. But he also still felt Sam’s tight grip on him, felt the weave of Sam’s sweater fisted in his hands and Sam’s hammering pulse against his temple, his soft breath stirring his hair.

 

Steve contemplated the offerings in his closet and decided on a dark gray argyle polo shirt that suited his fair coloring and heightened his blue eyes. He mimicked Sam’s choice of shoes and slid his feet into a pair of dark loafers, hoping he passed muster. No matter what he wore, Darlene would pull him aside, nag him that he wasn’t eating enough and pile everything but the kitchen sink onto his plate. He didn’t hate it. Everything Darlene Wilson laid her hands on tasted delicious. Steve heartily wished he had time for a haircut, though. His bangs were beginning to fall into his eyes. He did what he could with some hair gel and a wide-toothed comb, rolled on some deodorant and took another gulp of the questionable coconut coffee. Nope; still tasted weird.

Sam whistled at him when he emerged from his room. “You don’t look awful.”

“You _do_ sound surprised. Jerk.”

“ _Pleasantly_ surprised. You clean up nice.” Steve grinned and gave him a shove as he went to grab his phone and wallet. 

“Want the rest of this?”

“If you don’t want it, then I probably don’t, either. I’m sorry about that, Steve.” Sam still felt like an idiot for not getting Steve his favorite like he normally did.

“Eh. You saved me the trouble of wasting my own cash. I probably would have been curious enough to try it myself at some point. No harm, no foul, Samuel.”

Sam tried not to feel too disgruntled when he dumped the rest of it into the sink.

*

Sam and Steve were late enough that Sam had to park halfway down the block from his parents’ house. He already saw a few of Sam’s nieces and nephews out on the porch and front steps, fiddling with Nintendo DS consoles and smartphones. Steve dimly remembered when he and Sam would play with their Yu-Gi-Oh and Pokemon cards at that age, and he wondered what the heck happened.

“Wanna start acting coupley now, or when we get inside the house?” Steve murmured.

“No time like the present. There’s Auntie Mabel. Smile and wave,” Sam said through his teeth as he flashed one himself and reached for Steve’s hand.

Steve gave his fingers a squeeze. “Just along for the ride, Wilson.” Steve adjusted their grip and laced his fingers through Sam’s, and Sam felt a funny, tingly ripple run down his back, but… it was comfortable. And just… nice.

Mabel’s reaction was mixed as she watched their progress toward the house from the porch. She was just handing one of Sam’s aunts a large, foil-covered bowl, and her face arranged itself into a smile. To Sam’s satisfaction, he saw her eyes flit down to their joined hands. “There’s my favorite little nugget!”

“Little nugget?” Steve asked under his breath.

“Shut up,” Sam warned, still grinning at his aunt and allowing her to hug him tightly, leaving a hint of her glittery makeup on his shirt. “Hi, Auntie Mabel.”

“Mm, mmh, MMNH!” she huffed, pulling back from him for a moment. “They’re working you too hard. I see some gray hair, Samuel.”

“I work with teenagers, Auntie.”

“If they’re anything like you were, it’s a wonder your hair isn’t snowy white by now.” Sam looked affronted, but she squooshed his face in her palm and kissed his cheek. “You know I love you, Nugget. Even though you’re a little heathen.”

Steve snickered. Sam waited until she made her way into the house to give him a little kick in the shin.

Steve heard his aunt yell out, “Sam’s here!” and that turned the tide toward the door. Half of his aunts rushed him in the foyer, demanding that Sam give them some sugar and swamping him with kisses and hugs. His dad looked on from the couch, waving him over and nodding at Steve.

“Go into the kitchen. Your sister’s been carrying on since she got here, waiting for you,” Paul informed him. Sam sighed, feeling frustration simmer in his chest. He caught Steve’s eye, and he was giving him that gentle smile to reassure him, shrugging. 

_It’s your sister,_ Steve mouthed. “Calm down. And behave,” he muttered as Sam caught Steve’s wrist and tugged him after him into the kitchen through the crowd of his relatives, where his sister and mother were holding court with half of Sam’s female cousins, a few of Rae-Anne’s bridesmaids, and his grandmother.

Rae-Anne stopped mid-sentence from describing the tablecloths and napkins for the reception and the arch she wanted for the entryway of their venue when she saw Sam, and she beckoned to him, breaking away and reaching for Sam’s arm.

“Come with me,” she demanded, and before Sam could protest or greet anyone else, she yanked him along after her into the backyard.

“At least let me say hi to Mama and … well, okay…” His sister was petite but stronger than she looked, and Steve waved briefly to Darlene and Sam’s grandmother as he quietly followed them out, trying to stifle his laughter. Rae-Anne looked fretful and was running on all cylinders as she closed the screen door behind them.

“Okay, look, Sam… hey, Steve…”

“Hey.” He smiled and waved, and her smile was perfunctory before she turned back to Sam.

“I might have overstepped a little about my guest list. It might not have sounded like I was in your corner.”

“My corner seemed a little empty. Go on.”

“Samuel. Give me a chance, here.”

“Hey, I’m here. I’m listening. We’ve got all afternoon.” Sam folded his arms, but he could feel his resolve wavering as he listened to his sister’s attempt to reason with him.

“You and Riley were still together when I sent out the invitations. I’m sorry. It’s not like Hallmark makes ‘Sorry I have to renege on inviting you to my wedding, but can we still keep the Ninja Blender’ cards.”

“They _should_ ,” Steve interjected. Rae-Anne gave him a weak but knowing smile and nodded. Sam cut his eyes at Steve, like _Don’t stand here and agree with her._

“A Ninja blender?” Sam raised his brows. “Those aren’t cheap.”

“No!” Rae-Anne agreed. “I can juice kale with it, Sam. _Kale._ ”

“So, I can look forward to following you and Pop down the aisle with my ex looking on for the sake of kale juice?”

“No. I’m just letting you know that I’m letting Truman broach the subject at the bachelor party.”

Sam looked flummoxed. Steve held his breath.

“Are. You. Out. Of. Your. Damned. Mind?”

“Sam. Hear me out.”

“Hear your sister out, Sam,” Steve urged.

“ _Steve._ ”

“Sorry. But still.”

“Truman is going to talk to him about it. It might smooth things over while you fellas are enjoying your drinks and small talk for a little bit, and then Truman can suggest that he doesn’t have to ‘follow through’ on his RSVP if he feels like it would be awkward.”

Sam's eyes roamed the yard, and he noticed his future brother-in-law chatting with Sam’s uncle Roy about his upcoming business trip to Los Angeles. Truman was lounging on a vinyl webbed chaise with Puddin’, the gray cat that he shared with Rae-Anne ever since they moved into their rental house. The cat was looking evil and squinty as always, grudgingly allowing Truman to pet her and slapping his thigh with her feathery- looking tail. Truman indulged her, stroking a long path down her back, which only made her slap her tail more furiously. Sam never trusted Puddin’ when she did that while she camped out with him. Puddin’ was a cat of many moods, purring one moment and attacking Sam’s hand the next, with no warning to be had.

“So having him show up at the bachelor party won’t be awkward?”

“Why would it? Beer’s involved. And whatever other nasty thing you all decide to do, the details of which I _don’t_ need to know,” his sister emphasized. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Rae-Anne folded her arms in challenge.

“Have you forgotten that Truman knew Riley first?”

Because Sam needed _one more thing_ to make this weird. Shit was already _just. So. Weird._

“So?”

“You don’t think he sees him all the time? I don’t want to be impolite, even though I want to rain down the wrath of God on anyone who would break my baby brother’s heart. But it’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax when my brother’s ex is one of my soon-to-be-husband’s close friends.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue again, but Rae-Anne held up her hand. “Samuel.”

“Rae-Anne-“

“ _Samuel._ Listen to your sister. You and Riley are adults. You broke up like grownups do. And you can be civil like grownups do until all of this blows over. Listen to me. I love you.”

Sam sighed, letting the sound devolve into a growl, and he gripped his nape in partial defeat.

“I love you, Samuel. And I want you in my wedding. You and whomever you see fit to bring as your date…”

“Yo.” Steve waved and made pointy gun fingers at her, throwing in a ridiculous little neck swivel at Rae-Anne for good measure.

“Uh…hey, Steve,” Rae-Anne murmured, brows drawing together.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back the urge to laugh. His sister’s look of surprise and the way she suddenly lost steam was just… _golden_. It gave Sam _life_.

“I already RSVP’ed without a plus-one,” Steve reminded her, as he sidled up to Sam, giving him the perfect opportunity to wrap his arm around Steve’s narrow waist. “Figured I wouldn’t throw off your count for the number of people having the chicken if I was already going as Sam’s date.”

“Date? Oh, Steve, that’s okay, you can still bring someone if you w-“ Rae-Anne’s words evaporated on her lips as Sam leaned down and nuzzled Steve’s temple, then kissed the crest of his cheek. Both men wore smug looks, and Steve leaned in toward Sam, enjoying the stir they’d caused, because of _course_ Rae-Anne wasn’t the only one who saw the kiss, or their body language, or the slightly loopy way they were looking at each other…

“Steven already said he’s not bringing anybody,” Sam said simply. “Because I’m bringing _him_.”

Truman and Uncle Roy were staring. Paul, who had wondered outside to check on the grill, was staring, eyes darting to Sam’s arm around Steve’s waist. Sam’s older nephew Dante was staring, taking his earbuds out to see what he’d missed. Sam’s aunts Raquel and Deniece paused in their discussion of a juicy tidbit Raquel had heard at the beauty shop while she was getting her roots touched up.

“I don’t even have to sit at the head table,” Steve told her.

“The hell you don’t,” Sam snapped. “I’m not abandoning you to the end of the buffet line. You’re sitting at me with the rest of the bridal party, baby.”

Steve chuckled. “See what I love about this guy?” he asked Rae-Anne, giving Sam a little shove.

“When did you two…” Rae-Anne made motions between the two of them with her hand, squinting as she processed the news. “And Sam, of _course_ I’m fine with Steve at the same table with the bridal party, I haven’t even figured out my place cards yet, anyway. So, spill. When?”

“Just kinda happened,” Steve shrugged. “Always been sweet on your brother, kiddo. It’s the Wilson Charm.”

“No one’s resisted it yet,” Paul interjected. He put an arm around Rae-Anne’s shoulders and gave her a brief squeeze. “Go see what your mother wants in the kitchen. She made noise a little earlier about needing more mayonnaise for the potato salad.”

Rae-Anne wilted. “Can’t Sam get it?”

“Hey!” Sam tried to look annoyed, but Steve nodded, shrugging.

“C’mon. We can pick up more beer, too, Sam.”

Sam noticed that Steve was _bursting_ with the urge to laugh, anything to give vent to the sea of eyeballs staring at them from around the yard, begging the silent but obvious question: _When the heck did this happen?_ Sam could swear that was his auntie Deniece fiercely whispering “Are they carrying on, now?” as they left the back deck to head to Sam’s car. And maybe he was pushing it a little when he reached for Steve’s hand absently, and he felt Steve’s cool fingers find them way into his palm.

“Regular mayonnaise, not light, Sam,” his mother called out to him, barely sparing him a glance as she mixed a bowl of raw hamburger with her bare hands.

“I know, Mom.”

“No light beer, either,” someone piped up from the living room. Sam gave them a brief salute, and he and Steve escaped.

Steve was still bursting all the way back toward the car, and Sam was biting his lip until he clicked off the car alarm and got inside.

“That wasn’t subtle,” Sam scolded. “I was trying to be subtle.”

“No, you weren’t. You were going for that look on your sister’s face. There was nothing subtle about that back there at all, Sam Wilson. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Why? I did nothing wrong back there, Steven Grant. I was just cuddling my sweetie pie. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Geez…” Steve huffed, chuckling as he buckled his seat belt. “You couldn’t, huh?”

“Never can with you.”

“Awwww. You’re gonna swell a guy’s head.”

They stopped at the Giant store down the hill and perused the beer aisle after Sam picked up a large jar of Hellmann’s. They briefly laughed at the names of some of the wines and hard liquor, particularly “Fat Ass Tequila.” 

“I’d never drink half this stuff if I had to pick it based only on the name,” Steve claimed.

“They’re trying to appeal to the younger crowd, they don’t know what’s worth drinking …yet.”

Sam’s words locked up, and his smile deflated. Steve followed his line of vision down the aisle.

“Small world,” Riley called out. Jean-Paul tightened his grip on Riley’s shoulder, nodding a perfunctory “What’s up?”

“Microscopic,” Steve muttered.


	4. Ruffled Feathers, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley was Sam’s “Mr. Not-Quite.” Steve has strong opinions about this. Sam’s brother-in-law’s bachelor party might not be the best place to air them. But, hey! It’s _Steve_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect more drama. I couldn't contain myself. I wanted the update more than I wanted the longer, finished chapter, so I broke this one up.

“Out for supplies?” Riley’s question was casual enough, his tone easy and light. His overgroomed boyfriend hovered alongside him, giving Sam and Steve a tight little smile. Jean-Paul’s eyebrows looked recently waxed and plucked. His tan was still unseasonably dark; Steve wondered if it was sprayed on, at this point.

“Sure are. You can never have enough Donkey Piss.” Steve said this with a straight face. Sam facepalmed.

“Pardon?” Jean-Paul’s smile faltered for a moment.

“It’s… tequila,” Sam informed them, nodding to one of the ridiculously named bottles, sandwiched between the Skinny Girl Cocktails wine and juice blends and the “Pinot Evil” white. Sam and Steve were still middle schoolers at heart when it came to that kind of thing. Dad jokes, puns and bad movie quotes characterized their friendship. Sam and Steve grew up on a steady diet of Angry Beavers, Ren and Stimpy, and Beavis and Butthead with no regrets. The alcohol aisle hosted a plethora of gems.

“Sam’s more of a Chicken Cock man,” Steve claimed proudly, and inside, Sam was _dying_. The whiskey hosted a colorful rooster on the label and came in several different flavors, but Sam had no plans to walk up to the register and place that bottle on the conveyor belt. Not even on a bet.

“Sure am,” Sam agreed weakly, chuckling. Sam saw the twinkle in Steve’s eye and restrained himself from kicking him.

“I don’t wanna know, do I?” Riley’s lips twisted. 

“Probably not,” Steve offered.

Jean-Paul looked annoyed, now, that he was being left out, and he decided to stumble back in with “The Skinny Girl is on sale. Maybe you should take one home.” This was directed blatantly - _unfortunately_ \- at Steve.

“Never have. Never plan to.” 

Sam was so _done_. Riley’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline.

"Right. On that note, we won’t hold you up!”

“Have fun… doing whatever it is that you’re doing,” Jean-Paul added. Steve narrowed his eyes behind his bifocals, then gave him a wintry little smile.

“Grabbing some beer. And getting back to the party before the rest of the potato salad disappears,” Sam told them.

Riley nodded. “Your mom’s?”

“Yup.”

“Never lasts long when she makes it. I’m jealous,” he admitted. For a moment, his tone was fond.

“I’ll grab the mixers from the freezer aisle,” Jean-Paul informed them all as he sailed off around the corner. Riley looked annoyed, but he arranged his face into smooth lines.

“Right. I’ll… just… yeah.” He motioned to his Jean-Paul’s retreating back.

“Sure.” Sam rubbed his nape.

“Guess I’ll see you next week,” Riley mentioned.

Sam wondered if he looked as clueless as he felt. “Huh?”

“Stag night?”

And there it was. Sam’s ex saw that elephant in the room and shot it with a twelve-gauge.

“Truman emailed me about it last week,” Riley explained. 

Because of _course_ he did.

“So, you’re going, right?” Riley pressed.

“I’m still up in the air,” Sam hedged, feeling his face heat up, including his ears. 

“It’s next Saturday.”

“I know when it is.”

“Good. We’ll both be free.”

Steve looked at both men like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Sam opened his mouth, then closed it as he stared down at his best friend since middle school.

“Uh, didn’t you have other plans?” Sam urged, trying to telegraph _just how bad an idea this was,_ but Steve shrugged.

“Nope. We’ll be there with bells on. And we’ll even bring the Donkey Piss.”

That earned him another eyebrow raise from Riley and a facepalm from Sam. “No. Just… no,” Sam told him.

“What? All the young people are drinking it! We’ll be hip!” Steve claimed. Riley’s shoulders shook. “Don’t forget the mixers,” Steve told him.

“I’ll remind Jean-Paul,” Riley said. His voice was dry as a saltine. “Catch you later.”

Steve laid his hand against Sam’s lower back companionably and nodded as Riley took his leave. It felt hot through Sam’s shirt. “You ain’t right,” Sam told Steve under his breath.

“Sure ain’t. Grab the beer, and let’s bail.”

They bickered all the way through the self checkout lane and into the car, but by the time they reached the house, both of them were pensive. 

“So. You’re goin’?” Steve murmured.

“Huh?”

“To the bachelor party.”

Sam sighed.

“I… guess.” Sam unbuckled his seat belt and twisted around in his seat to face Steve fully. Steve’s face was neutral. He wasn’t judging Sam, but he was still projecting _You don’t have to do this shit. You KNOW that, right?_ vibes. “I don’t _have_ to. Might be bad form if I _didn’t._ ” Then Sam remembered. “You don’t have to go with me, if… I don’t expect you to, Rogers.”

“Pffft… uhhhh, hello? Free booze? And you’re hilarious when you’re drunk. Do you _really_ think I’m gonna miss out on that?”

Sam chuckled, and he felt some of the stress in his chest unknot itself. “What’s this ‘free’ stuff? I’m going to have to kick down, Steven.”

“We’re bringing Chicken Cock.”

“We are _not_.”

“C’mon, Sam. Best groom’s gift _ever_. Truman will thank us. Man, I’d love to see the look on whatshisface when you roll up to the party with a bottle of it.”

“Whatshis… who? Jean-Paul?” Steve nodded emphatically. “That’s what we’re calling him now?”

“Riley has better taste than that,” Steve told him as he shouldered his way out of the car. Sam’s brows drew together. “C’mon. Jean-Paul? He’s got ‘rebound fling’ written all over him. And he’s a douche.”

Sam shrugged and nodded as he weighed this. Riley and Jean-Paul had been fooling around long enough now to qualify as more than a “fling.” So he told Steve, “He’s easy on the eyes.”

“He wears too much cologne. And he overgrooms. And, Sam? I mean it. Riley has better taste than that. He knows better.”

It took Sam until they came back to the kitchen with his mom’s mayonnaise to figure out that Steve was talking about _him_.

 

*

Sam and Steve spent the rest of the party shoulder to shoulder, catching looks and whispers from Sam’s aunts and cousins between helpings of chicken and indecent amounts of ambrosia and corn bread. Sam’s younger nieces and nephews hung all over Steve, who watched them scribbling in their coloring books and began taking requests for sketches. Sam watched him creating pictures of Disney and comic characters that were recognizable at first glance, blocking in shapes with quick, confident strokes of his pencil. It was fun to watch Steve work – or play, this time – tracking the movements of those long, slender fingers with their prominent knuckles and blunt nails. Steve was comfortably slumped in the dinette chair, with two of Sam’s nieces leaning against him, hovering over the scrap paper with their mouths dropped open in fascination.

“You’re a good draw-er,” little Danielle murmured, poking her tiny finger against the page. “Draw Wonder Woman’s stars. She has stars on her chonies.”

“On her chonies?” Steve’s shoulders shook a little, and he grinned up at Sam.

“On her draws, Steve,” Sam corrected him.

“My bad,” Steve admitted as he began to scribble sharp little five-point stars on the garment in question. “Almost done. Who wants to color this one?”

“ME!”

“That’s not how we answer the grown-ups,” Sam chided.

“Can I color it, please?” 

“Of _course_ you can, sweetheart.” Steve slid the drawing over to her, and Danielle’s younger sister crowded her at the other side of the table while she selected some markers that already had dehydrated tips. 

“Don’t let ‘em wear you out,” Sam murmured, reaching down to knead Steve’s shoulder. Steve groaned in response, eyes shuttering and leaning into the massage.

“Ooh. Move up a little, get my neck…” Steve made a noise bordering on obscene. Sam continued to rub, lips curling at his friend’s look of rapture.

“You’re not spoiled at all,” he remarked.

“Hey, I deserve this,” Steve informed him.

“Ew. Y’all are sickening,” Ray-Anne let them know, no bones about it. “Stop being all touchy and stuff.”

“Y’all are sickening, too,” Sam shot back as Truman appeared, looping an arm around Ray-Anne’s waist and nuzzling her cheek. “Nobody needs to see that!”

“Behave, children,” Darlene warmed, brandishing her wooden spoon.

“I’m behaving, Ma! Sam and Steve are the ones up here, making a scene!”

“Who’s making a scene? I’m making pretty pictures,” Steve countered, but he covered Sam’s hand with his where it was still resting on his shoulder, curling his fingers around it and giving them a squeeze. He tipped his head back, bumping the crown against Sam’s chest for good measure, and his expression held mischief.

Sam loved that look. It was his favorite. 

“You heard the man, he’s making pretty pictures.” Sam bent down and engulfed Steve in a hug just a few degrees shy of a headlock and blew a raspberry on his neck, and Steve reflexively swatted him, laughing in disgust. “Nope, I take that back, NOW we’re being sickening.” He blew another raspberry on him, ignoring Steve’s attempts to disentangle himself.

“You’re the worst… oh, God, GROSS! EW!” But Sam wouldn’t let go of him, and his nieces giggled behind their hands at their uncle’s antics.

“That’s yucky,” Danielle told Sam, wrinkling her little nose.

“You’re absolutely correct, young lady. Your uncle Sam is _very_ yucky.” Steve’s expression mocked indignance. Sam huffed and gave his temple a peck. His hair was tousled slightly, a little worse for wear from the scuffle. He released Steve and went to help his mother put away the leftovers. Steve continued sketching for a bit longer, giving Sam’s nieces a few more scraps to color, then he stood, stretched (missing the feel of Sam’s hands at his neck) and went out back to help bring in the rest of the food from outside.

Truman began shifting the contents of the refrigerator shelves to make room for the covered dishes and Tupperware. “This might not all fit.”

“You and Ray are going to take home a plate,” Darlene explained. “Sam and Steve are, too. If enough of you take home a plate, then it’ll fit. I’ll _make_ it fit.” Truman didn’t look convinced, but he continued to redistribute the containers and bags.

“Never underestimate Mom’s ability to make it fit,” Sam reminded him.

“Grandmama was good at that, too,” Truman remarked. “That woman could stock a deep freezer. I think she had deer meat in the bottom of that thing from around 1968.”

“Deer?” Ray-Anne made a face. “Ew.”

“I don’t keep anything _that_ long,” Darlene reminded them. “But _that’s_ why you’re going to take home a plate.”

Truman and Sam worked on the dishes next. Ray-Anne headed upstairs to powder her nose. Steve lingered outside, talking to Paul about the game. 

“So. Steve, huh?” Truman elbowed him as he hand-dried Darlene’s cast iron skillet. “When did that happen?”

“A little while back.”

Truman shrugged, nodding. 

“We ran into Riley at the store.”

“Small world,” Truman mused.

“It’s small, all right.” Sam busied himself with a handful of silverware. “He mentioned the bachelor party.”

Truman huffed, chuckling under his breath.

“He doesn’t miss many of those.” Truman turned to face Sam, crumpling the dish towel and dropping it onto the counter. “Say the word, and you don’t have to worry about it, Sam.”

Sam flushed. “I’m not going to tell you who you can have on your guest list, Tru, I-“

“I know you’re not. I wouldn’t listen, anyway. I just mean if you want to sit one out and tell Ray-Anne that something came up, I can back you up.”

“What?” Sam was incredulous.

“Man, I’m yanking your chain. Your sister would _kill_ me if I let you get out of it. You know she expects you to keep tabs on me.”

Which… wasn’t inaccurate.

“Sam. My man. My brother. I’m not _saying_ it’ll be awkward if you don’t show up, but… no. Wait. I am. I’m saying it’ll be awkward if you don’t show up.”

Sam made a ragged noise. “You, too, Truman???”

“You and Riley don’t get to divvy up your friends amongst yourselves just because you broke up,” Truman reminded him. “I adore your sister. I plan to take care of her for the rest of her life and let her wrap me around her delicate little pinkie. As soon as we say those vows, you’re my brother, Sam. You’ll be my family, because it’s a package deal.” Truman sighed as he put away some of the clean silverware in the drawer. “All of us thought you two were the ones who would go the extra mile, Sam. Maybe me, more than anyone else. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” And he was, Sam knew.

“Hey, relax, man. Look at it this way: You will never have to set me up with any of your friends ever again.” Not that Truman _had_ to in the first place, but they all just _happened_ to go out one night, and his sister might have neglected to mention that they were meeting her then-boyfriend’s buddy at the bar for pool and darts. Sam wasn’t saying it to be ( _that_ ) mean, but he took a little satisfaction in the way that Truman’s eyes flitted out the back screen, where Steve threw back his head and laughed at something Paul said. The sound made the corners of Sam’s lips curl. “I’ve got the hang of finding someone for myself, now.”

“Pfffft…” Truman side-eyed Sam. “Son, _please_. You didn’t _find_ Steve. Not unless you finally took those blinders off and actually watched how much that guy was hanging on your every word and looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”

Wait.

“What.”

“You heard me.”

Sam opened his mouth, but words refused to come out. He gestured over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “There was no… hanging on words happening. We just… we just get along well. We’re having fun. We decided to try things out.”

“Sam. _Samuel._.” Truman chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about me surprising you with anymore of my single friends. You and Steve seem pretty tight. Always were, anyway. Just wondered when you were gonna open your eyes and see what was already right under your nose.” Sam held up his finger, mouth open to give Truman a dose of _Now just a MINUTE_ when Truman chucked the dish towel into his face to shut him up. “So. You’re coming to the bachelor party. You’re going to smile and drink and scrape me up off the floor and tell wife-to-be that I behaved myself and help me delete all of the potential blackmail from everyone’s smart phones before it’s time to go home.”

Steve brought in a pile of soiled paper plates and used plastic utensils and began to stuff them into the open garbage bag by the stove. “Are you kidding? We’re gonna be scraping Sam off the floor,” he claimed, “and we need the pictures, or it didn’t happen.”

Truman snickered. Sam didn’t stop himself from giving Steve the shove he deserved when he and Truman high-fived. Steve’s grin was pleased. He reached out and booped Sam on the nose just to annoy him.

“You’re the worst,” Sam muttered.

“That’s not what you said last night.” Steve’s tone was deadpan. Sam checked in with himself for a moment, and yup. Uh-huh. He was _done_. His facepalm was _automatic_.

“Okay. That’s enough,” Truman decided as he went back to drying the dishes.

A few minutes later, Sam was taking his sweet time with goodbyes. Steve leaned against the arm of the sofa, daring to pet Puddin’, who was squinting up at Steve and lashing her tail ominously, despite the fact that she was purring under his caresses. 

“Watch out for that one,” Sam warned as he hugged his aunts.

“Oh, don’t listen to him, Steve. She’s a sweetheart,” Ray-Anne claimed. “She’s just _sensitive_.”

“Meaning Ray spoils her rotten and that the cat has her mind-controlled. There’s a little antenna buried under her hair. The cat has the remote somewhere in this house,” Sam countered.

“No. It’s telepathic suggestion.” Truman smirked around the rim of his can of beer, and Ray-Anne gave him a stern poke.

“Be nice.”

Steve stopped stroking the cat for a moment and smiled down at the way the cat stretched and rolled onto her back. “Nope. You’re not gonna sucker me into that, kitty. It ain’t my first rodeo.” No matter how plush and fluffy and inviting that belly looked, Steve valued his hand in its current, unscathed state. Steve straightened up from the couch and tucked his hands in his pockets, a silent indication that he was ready to go. 

“Don’t rush off without giving me some sugar,” Darlene scolded, and Steve obliged with a pleased little huff, letting Sam’s mother squoosh him and giving her a peck on the cheek. 

“Everything was great. Thanks for letting me come.”

“Thanks for coming. It’s so good to see you, Steve.” She turned and handed Steve two foil-covered plates of leftovers. “We need to fatten you up. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Oh, my gosh, Darlene! You’re spoiling me. I won’t have to cook for the rest of the week!”

“There’s more where that came from. Bring this hardhead son of mine home whenever you have the chance.”

“Hey!” Sam pouted, planting his hands on his hips. Darlene mimicked his stance.

“I’m going to forget what my son looks like! You hardly ever come over, anymore!” Sam made an aggrieved noise. Darlene tweaked Sam’s ear, making him roll his eyes while Steve suppressed a snicker. Sam lightly kicked him, and Steve laughed unrestrained. He considered Sam for a moment, then reached down and took Sam’s hand, keeping their routine consistent. Steve’s fingers felt warm. His thumb stroked Sam’s pulse. Truman glanced at the gesture, shrugged, but said nothing.

They finally made it out the door. Steve put the plates on the back seat and slumped into the passenger seat, completely bushed and stuffed.

“I’m done in. That was awesome.”

“You don’t leave Mom’s hungry,” Sam reminded him.

“I might move in.” Steve patted his stomach, usually so flat it was almost concave, but Sam was impressed by its rounder shape, distended from eating so much. He loosened his own waistband before buckling his seatbelt. 

“Mom will put you to work. Eating that good doesn’t come free, Rogers. Last time I came home, I ended up weeding the back and clipping the hedges along the driveway.”

“She can pay me in ambrosia. That was _good_.”

They drove home to Steve’s apartment, both of them pensive.

“You okay?” Steve asked him. 

“Yeah. I’m… good.”

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“No. Not… not like I thought it might be.”

Steve tapped his fingers on the bar of the door. “Do you still ever wish you were with him?”

Sam glanced over at Steve. “I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “I did at first. I did for a while, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. It’s… I don’t know. I see him, and some of the old feelings come back. I remember what it was like when things were good, but… I don’t know how to answer that.”

“No. You’re answering it. It’s just not a pat, black-and-white answer. I get it. You miss him, right?”

“Yes. Yes, I do miss him.”

“But?” There was a hint of hopefulness in Steve’s voice that Sam mistook for plain, friendly interest.

“But it isn’t… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel ‘desperate’ anymore. When we split, I just… I couldn’t figure out how I was going to get by without him in my life. He left a huge hole. _Gigantic_.” Sam took his hands off the wheel for a moment and gestured with a vast space between his palms. “I’m still figuring it out. Still a pretty big draft coming in through that hole, Steve. And I think he’s figured out how to live without _me_ by now.”

“That’s not ‘living without you.’ That’s settling for a huge ego and overwaxed eyebrows. Seriously.”

Sam snorted.

Steve settled back into his seat, stealing looks at Sam’s profile as he drove, the casual grip of his strong, smooth hands on the wheel. 

*

Sam walked Steve to the door after Steve mentioned, “I think you left one of your jackets here a while back, if it’s that beige one hanging in the hall closet,” Steve told him.

“Oh, man, I’m so glad you said something. I was going nuts wondering where I left it.”

“Goofball. Come up and get it.”

Sam held Steve’s plate of leftovers while Steve rummaged for his keys, but the door rattled as Clint unlocked it from the other side and stood grinning in the doorway to let them in. “Hey, you brought me dinner!”

“I think you mean tomorrow’s dinner, for _me,_ ” Steve corrected him sternly, but Clint was already giving him the puppy eyes.

“You wouldn’t stand between me and Darlene’s corn bread,” Clint insisted. “C’mon. That’d be too cruel.”

“Half,” Steve warned. “And not one crumb more.” Clint grinned and rubbed his hands.

“Come to Daddy.” He took the plate from Steve while Steve led Sam to the closet for his jacket. “I wish my mom lived in town. I’ve missed dinners like this.” He snuck some of Steve’s baked beans and a bit of the ambrosia, too. 

“Don’t make me come over there and take that from you, Barton.”

“Good thing Nat’s not here to take it from you both,” Sam reminded him.

“True.”

“Not a word of this to Nat,” Clint said through a mouthful of cornbread. She kept a tight handle on Clint’s diet ever since his cholesterol levels came back just this side shy of “bacon.”

“How much are you gonna pay me?” Steve urged. He opened the closet door, and Sam grinned as he took the jacket down from the hanger.

“You’ve saved my sanity,” Sam told him as he put the jacket on. It was cooler outside once the sun went down.

“So. Saturday.” Steve tucked his hand in his pocket and rubbed his nape, looking at Sam expectedly. Sam licked his lips nervously, nodding.

“Yeah. I’ll meet you here. Truman can come and get us.”

“He’s the groom, he shouldn’t be the one driving!”

“He’s not. He rented a limo.” Tablecloths and overpriced shrimp puffs weren’t the only thing he was spending money on for his wedding. 

“Okay.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“Hot date, huh?” Clint glanced at them from the microwave, where he heated up his portion of Steve’s food.

“Stag party,” Steve corrected him.

“Eh. That could be worth a few laughs.”

“We won’t stay long,” Sam assured him.

“Why not? Free booze,” Clint told him.

“And Sam’s ex,” Steve supplied.

Clint’s grin collapsed. “Oh. Never mind, then. But, hey, free booze!” 

“Steve’s going to keep me company.”

“Well, there! There you go! You’ll be fine, Sam. You’ll have Steve under your arm all night. Two of you can canoodle like you always do.” Which was overstating things (wasn’t it?). Because this was only a recent development. (Wasn’t it?)

It was time to throw in a little more canoodling, Sam realized, just for good measure. It must have dawned on Steve, too, because he glanced up at Sam through his eyelashes and cleared his throat. He nodded toward the door before walking Sam to it.

“See you Saturday, Sam.”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Sam promised, and he leaned down just as Steve was angling his face up, sliding his hand up Sam’s chest, just inside the flap of his jacket.

The kiss was soft and increasingly familiar with practice (because this was _practice,_ right?), and Steve’s heartbeat stuttered, which it tended to do, anyway; his pediatrician discovered his murmur when he was about three. But he felt his face heat up and heard a rushing in his ears, and Sam’s nape felt taut and hot under his palm.

“Geez, you two are sickening. Get a room,” Clint huffed as he shoveled beans into his mouth, and Sam noticed how much he was clinging to Steve, his lips still tingling when they separated. If he didn’t know better, Steve’s glasses looked a little fogged up, and his eyes… his pupils were dilated, and they looked slightly dazed. His fair skin was flushed, and he was a little unsteady on his feet as he stepped back. The kiss affected him more than he wanted to admit.

It scared him. It confused Sam.

“Welp,” Sam announced. “G’night.”

“Night.” 

*

So.

Saturday.

Steve stepped out of the shower, loathe to leave the warm steam, because it meant he had to follow through on his promise to Sam to “get him through” the bachelor party and head off the inevitable self pity spiral. It also meant making himself presentable without making it seem like he was trying too hard, because hello? On some level, maybe he wanted Sam to notice him a little. Because maybe Steve enjoyed those “pretend” kisses with Sam. Not just putting on a show to convince everyone else, but… 

Steve wanted to convince _Sam_.

 _Do you ever still wish you were with him?_ Steve didn’t want to know the answer to that question, but it was there on the tip of his tongue, and he wanted to kick himself for giving in to the urge to ask Sam. Steve didn’t want Sam’s answer to be a resounding _yes_. He held his breath for those painful seconds while Sam waffled with the answer. And Sam’s pain still lingered in his reply, that hint of regret dimming the light in his eyes, because of _course_ he still missed Riley and what they had. Steve Rogers was a stand-up friend. He wanted Sam Wilson to have all the happiness in the world, even if it meant him having it with someone else. Hearing about the dates, seeing Sam’s shy smiles, and his more radiant ones, hearing his self-deprecating laughter when he insisted that his boyfriend was way out of his league… it was sweet, exquisite torture for Steve. Because Sam Wilson in love was beautiful to witness.

So, it killed him a little, when their first kiss didn’t lead to anything else. Did Steve _expect_ it to go anywhere? Not necessarily. Would it have been _nice?_

Heck, yeah.

Steve felt a little guilty for belaboring the point, for scratching up fresh hurt by asking Sam about it when a sturdy scab was finally growing over the wound. Hearing the hesitation in his tone and the noncommittal answer might have been what Steve deserved. 

Steve went through the motions of selecting his clothes, spraying on cologne, Q-tipping his ears, clipping his jagged nails. He sighed over the state of his hair; he really needed a trim. Steve glanced at himself in the mirror while he was still damp-skinned and swathed in a towel. He turned to the side and sucked his stomach in, pushing out his chest. The former wasn’t difficult, because let’s face it, Steve Rogers was slender. “Bony” was probably pushing it. His skin was smooth, with a dusting of sandy hair over his forearms but nary any to be found on his chest. He still had his summer freckles, further emphasizing how fair his skin was. Steve wondered if Sam would like what he saw, up close, if… His face flushed at the thought of Sam’s hands, how it would feel to be touched by them, to have those broad palms running over his skin.

He dismissed the thought and went back to his hygiene, picking his teeth with a green flosser and giving his mouth a swish of Listerine. Right. He was supposed to be making himself presentable. What kind of outfit said “Bachelor Party” without making him look like a douche? Steve went back to his closet. The black jeans were a no-brainer. He considered the rest of his shirts, dragging each selection’s hanger across the rod with a frustrated sigh. It was Sam. God knew he’d seen Steve at his worst, so it wasn’t like he all of the sudden needed to look _perfect_. At the end of the day, Sam was still his best friend.

Steve just had the weird, stupid urge to look nice for a night out with him. In front of Sam’s ex. And a room full of drunk guys being ridiculous to celebrate the end of Truman’s freedom. Steve bit the bullet and tugged a snug, battleship gray, long-sleeved tee off the hanger, cementing his choice while he was still feeling brave. He’d bought it from the “guys” section of the store, since casual clothes from the regular men’s tended to swim on his narrow frame.

“Hope to God he doesn’t think I’m trying too hard,” he muttered to himself while he dressed and scrunched gel into his hair.

*

Why was it taking Sam so long to pick out one damned _shirt_?

Sam just stared into the abyss of his closet, arm crossed over his middle, hand clamped over his mouth in thought. Everything he owned screamed “responsible adult” and was suitable for a day at the school, going over IEPs and asking teenagers to process their feelings. Nothing outright said “Bachelor Party” or even “casual date with my best friend who I wish was more, but things might get too weird.”

Why did everything have to be so hard?

When the heck did it all turn into a hot mess of massive, unthinkable proportions?

How did the universe come up with the ridiculous idea to make Sam Wilson fall head over heels in love with his best friend?

Those thoughts were dangerous and too tempting and would brook bad things for him if he didn’t check himself. Sam went through the motions of shaving, making faces at himself in the mirror as he checked under his chin for spots that he’d missed and plucked a couple of errant nose hairs. He contemplated touching up his fade, but decided a trip to the barber shop closer to the wedding was more reasonable. The look of a fresh haircut tonight might be overdoing it. Maybe just a tad.

Sam chased away his bloodshot eyes with some Visine drops and brushed his teeth with his sonic brush, then gave himself a test smile. Not bad. But would it convince Riley that he was happy with Steve and managing just fine since they broke up? Wasn’t that the point of their charade?

Sam straightened up in the mirror and smiled again. This time, he thought of how Steve looked when he picked him up at his apartment, and that sent a little ripple of pleasure into his belly. Sam flexed for a moment, because why the heck not? Would Steve notice that he’d been working out? Sam rubbed some cocoa butter lotion into his chapped elbows and knees, out of habit. His mother didn’t raise her children to look ashy walking out the door, thank you very much. Some tiny part of him wondered if Steve appreciated how…

“Okay. Stop it now,” he scolded himself. That was enough. He had to finish getting ready.

The burnt orange sweater was lightweight and brought out his eyes. It would have to do.


	5. Ruffled Feathers, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last fling. One last chance to find out where it all went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no way to even excuse myself or explain this.

Sam silently scolded himself the whole way up the stairs toward Steve’s apartment, trying to dash down the butterflies in his gut. “Get a grip, Wilson,” he muttered. “You’re picking up your best friend. You’re headed to your future brother-in-law’s stag party to watch him make a fool out of himself with strippers and peel him up off the floor. This is no big deal.” He stood for a moment two doors down from Steve’s and gave himself a little shake, cracked his neck and gave his shoulders a little roll to ground himself.

“You’ve got this. This doesn’t have to be weird.” The coffee in his hand was beginning to sweat, condensation running down the sides of the domed plastic cup. Sam cheated and licked a bit of the caramel off the center of the lid where the puff of whip pushed through the hole, and he was annoyed that he hadn’t bought himself one. But he was all jittery nerves and fighting flop sweat, and the last thing he needed was caffeine.

“Nope. Doesn’t have to be weird.” He made it to the door and gave a brisk, short knock. He felt reassured when he heard Steve’s familiar, light footsteps from inside. “Hold yer horses, I’m comin’!” he called out.

“There’s fashionably late, Rogers,” Sam called back, knowing his voice was loud enough to possibly annoy Steve’s neighbors, but it helped his nerves a little to practice his bravado now, “and there’s just plain-“ The door swung open with a jerk, and Steve stood there, leaning against the jamb.

“Hey.”

“-rude.” Sam swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

_When did his best friend get so hot?_

“I wasn’t gonna keep you waiting, Wilson. Sheesh. Mr. Impatient, all of the sudden.” Then he beamed. “Is that for me?”

“What? This? Nah. You don’t want any of this,” Sam kidded, and Steve gave him a mock look of hurt, pouting.

“If you don’t hand that over, we can’t stay friends.”

“Hey, if I didn’t know better, I’d think _someone_ is just in this friendship for the fringe benefits.”

“Pffft. Looks like you’ve been tasting it already, anyway.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got some on your mouth, jerk.”

“What? Do _not_.”

“No? What’s this, then?” Steve smirked, and he leaned in and reached for the corner of Sam’s mouth, swiping the streaky drop of whip and caramel from Sam’s skin. Steve brought his thumb between his own lips and sucked off the sweet fragment, eyes closing in pleasure at the taste. “Jerk. That’s good! Hand it over!”

_Right after my brain reboots itself,_ Sam wanted to tell him, when he could get his words to work again. All of the available ones he could muster flew the coop at the sight of Steve’s soft pink lips closing around the tip of his thumb like that. It was bad enough that he felt like soda pop was fizzing in his veins at Steve’s random touch. He didn’t feint or try to divert Steve from the cup or hide it behind his back like he typically would, because, if he was honest, Sam couldn’t deny Steve _anything_ shrink-wrapped like he was in that snug, knit shirt and the dark jeans that hugged his narrow hips and tapered thighs. _Good things came in small packages._

“Do I still have any on my face?” Sam murmured.

“What? Uh… no. Wait… turn this way for a sec?” Sam obeyed, turning slightly and leaning (he _had_ to, okay? Don’t judge him), and Steve jutted his chin up, exhaling a little hum as he reached for Sam’s chin. He gently turned it, then flicked at the same spot beside his lip.

“It’s sticky,” he murmured. Then he licked his thumb in a total mom-with-spit-on-a-hankie move and swabbed it over the side of his face. That broke Sam’s brief trance, and he sputtered in disgust.

“Oh, c’mon!!! You are _not right!_ ”

Steve snickered. “I had to get it all, Wilson.” Steve saluted him with the cup. “Thanks, by the way. I was drying for one of these.”

“They were out of raspberry. You, uh, you like caramel, right?”

“You kidding? I _love_ caramel fraps. If this is your thank-you bribe for going with you to this thing tonight, then you’re more than welcome.” Steve took an appreciative sip. “But money would have been better…”

“The pleasure of my company makes you a rich man already, Rogers.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Someone’s feeling confident about themselves, tonight.”

Sam cocked his head and looked askance, pretending to scratch his chin, when made little shooty fingers at Steve. “Hm. _No._ Not at all.”

“Sam… c’mon. Never know. Might even be a little fun… okay. You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows again.” Steve dissolved into snickers again. “Don’t make that face. I can’t stand it when you make the face.” 

Sam continued to make the face, crossing his arms, and Steve laughed outright.

“Just drink your coffee, Rogers. Hurry your skinny butt up.”

“Hey, uh… does it look okay?”

“Huh?”

“In these jeans?” Steve motioned down at himself, and before Sam could offer his opinion, he showed him his back, and Sam’s mouth went dry again, because of course his eyes flitted down to that adorable little backside, with “Calvin Klein” stitched on the pockets. 

But he huffed and crossed his arms. “We’re really doing this? You’re confident that we have the kind of friendship where I’ll reassure you that your ass looks great in those jeans?”

“Well, does it?” Steve turned back around, giving Sam the puppy dog eyes, now, and Sam just _couldn’t_. Were Steve’s cheeks pink?

Steve, in the meantime, wondered how overly hopeful he sounded, or how much of a sap Sam thought he was by now.

“If you weren’t my lifelong friend, and I saw you walking half a block in front of me on a crowded sidewalk, that ass in those jeans might catch my attention. But you are, and you aren’t, and it’s good enough for a night out, and will you _just come one, already!_ ” Sam finished impatiently, throwing up his hands, then pantomiming giving Steve a swift kick that Steve swerved away from as he escaped into the kitchen to get his wallet off the counter.

It would give him a minute to process how good Sam looked, that he’d just literally tasted coffee from his best friend’s mouth without anything resembling restraint. What was his _malfunction?_ Geez… no one was even around to witness them “canoodling.” It was like Steve was running on autopilot flirting with Sam, now. 

More wishful thinking. Sam was probably more grossed out by it, anyway, licky thumbs and all. Still… Sam looked _good._ Freshly trimmed beard and hair, shrink-wrapped in _those jeans,_ and Steve was jealous of Sam’s sweater for getting to lay against that _chest_. (Yes, Steve was that ridiculous. Don’t judge him.)

Steve fished a jacket out of the closet and had one sleeve of it on while he crammed his wallet into his pants pockets. He juggled myriad items, cup, keys, until Sam intervened and held his coffee for him, at first. Steve’s jacket wasn’t cooperating. He did the thing with the sleeve where you keep reaching for it and missing because the second half of the jacket keeps sagging away from your shoulder. Sam sighed, shaking his head.

“Still haven’t figured out clothes, huh? Do we need to get out the board that teaches you how to tie your shoes, too?”

“Hahaha, yeah, you think you’re smart…”

“Just… stand still,” Sam huffed, feigning more exasperation than he felt, just to give Steve a hard time. And maybe turning Steve slightly by the shoulders and shifting the sleeve so he could slip his arm into it was something he did to earn himself that roll of Steve’s eyes and ragged sigh.

“You’re worse than my grandma, Wilson.”

“Don’t talk like that about Grandmaw-maw,” Sam scolded. “She was a sweet woman, Steve.” Steve gave him a little shove, trying to look unaffected by Sam’s light touch. The random vision he had of Sam removing his clothes was automatic, and unwelcome, and it was time to get his head together and head out the door.

“Ready?”

“I’m ready. You ready?”

“Close enough.”

Before they left, Clint wandered out into the living room, bleary and tousled from a nap. “Hey,” he managed through a yawn, waving at Sam. “Wanna bring home some milk on your way back?”

“Wasn’t it your turn?” Steve gave Clint the Eyebrow of Disappointment.

“What?” Clint’s voice was astonished, and he staggered back as though Steve had wounded him. “True friends don’t take turns when it comes to generosity and compassion, Steven! You’d let your oldest, dearest friend and considerate roommate suffer the bleakness of Captain Crunch without two percent milk? Have you no _soul_ , Steve?”

“Uh… yo. Oldest, dearest friend over here,” Sam corrected him, pointing to himself. Steve elbowed him and looked at him like _Have we forgotten something?_ Sam blushed. Shit. That was right, they were-

“Maybe before you two started knocking boots,” Clint reminded him, cackling. “I get to wear the Best Friend Crown now, Wilson. You’ve been dethroned.”

“Hey!”

Steve was biting his lip, torn. Sam’s expression and indignant stance were _awesome_ , but he was missing an opportunity to maintain his ruse. He threaded his hand through the crook of Sam’s arm. Sam felt his cheeks heat up, and he glanced down at Steve, dark eyes demanding _Can you believe this guy?_

“That’s all right,” Sam decided aloud. “See if Steve brings you back any milk now, Barton. Because I’m gonna drink it all.”

“Awww!”

“Don’t wait up,” Steve told him, sighing as he tugged Sam out the door, finally. Even after the door closed behind them, he didn’t let go of Sam. He felt too good.

Sam shook him off, returning his earlier shove. “Barton does NOT get the Best Friend Crown, just so you know, Steve. You should never even joke about that.”

“Sammy… c’mon. You know Barton was yankin’ your chain.” They huddled by the curb, waiting for their cab. “Just wanted to stay in, uh… character.”

Sam tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, bumping shoulders with Steve. “Yeah. I slipped up, I guess.” Then he chuckled. “So, how long do you feel like keeping this up? We never really set a deadline.”

Steve’s stomach began to twist itself into a hard ball. “Uh.”

“Hey. It’s fine, right? By the time the wedding’s gone by, everyone’s lips will be flapping about Ray and Truman. No one’ll be paying us any attention.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They were paying pretty close attention at the engagement party,” Steve said, trying to sound casual, but cold dread was seeping in, and Sam didn’t seem to notice the slight edge to his voice, or the effect his words had.

“Well… maybe, now that you mention it.”

“No one seemed to mind,” Steve pointed out. “I mean, I know they’re used to _Riley_. Maybe they think you should be with someone more like _him_ than a guy like _me_.”

Sam’s easy smile dropped, and Steve found his wrist gripped in Sam’s hand. “What?”

“Maybe they do,” Steve muttered.

“Like hell, ‘maybe they do!’ Maybe they don’t, because how the hell did those words just come out of your mouth, Steven Grant Rogers? Rogers. _Rogers._ Look at me.”

Steve couldn’t, yet. A gusty sigh escaped him, and his shoulders sagged.

“Steve. Don’t do that. Don’t ever compare yourself to Riley. Shit, don’t compare yourself to anyone, do you hear me, Steve?”

Because Sam just got hit upside the head with the Dummy Stick, and his ears were ringing from it, voices in the back of his mind chorusing _Don’t you dare let him say that. Don’t let this go, for the love of God. This is STEVE._

“So, um. Maybe when we’re out with everybody, don’t use me as an arm rest or a leaning post?” Steve suggested, trying to bring back the light and easy feel the night had started with.

“Fair enough.” Their cab showed up, cutting off the lecture Sam was writing in his head; no need to overshare their “teachable moment” on how Steve could trust Sam not to hold him up to some unfair standard or compare him to his ex. His _ex,_ goddamn it. 

To Riley. _Fuck._

Just… no. No.

Riley was an amazing man. Noble and responsible and intelligent. Built like a brick house. Mad skills in the bedroom. Obsessively neat, because hello? Military. Organized and stable. Demanding. Maybe Sam had a kink for a man who was a little aggressive and direct about what he wanted. Maybe Riley made him feel safe. And a little spoiled. 

But Steve…

There was no comparison. Nowhere in any universe would Sam Wilson place those men side by side and hold up a yard stick. Ever. Steve was the one constant in his life when Sam’s sky way falling or when the ground crumbled out from beneath Sam’s feet. Steve… God, where could Sam even _begin?_

Steve was there for him when Sam made trips home on weekends from campus to visit Mom and do his laundry and to freak out with him about his coursework and internships. Steve was his confidante and partner in crime through bar crawls and bachelor parties whenever one of their high school or college classmates tied the knot or bought a house, leaving Sam to wonder when he would ever get his own act together. Steve was the one who always reminded him that it wasn’t a race, that there wasn’t a finishing line, and no one was standing there, clicking a stopwatch whenever Sam achieved any “adulty” milestone. Steve appreciated Sam’s interests and would marathon MST3K episodes with him when they were both supposed to be studying, or in Steve’s case, working on his art commissions. Steve never belittled Sam’s taste in old science fiction and cartoons. Riley muttered “Nerd” under his breath whenever he saw Sam drinking from another superhero-themed coffee mug or wearing his any of his Star Wars tees out the door to the gym. Which was… fine, but… what was wrong with liking what Sam liked?

Steve owned a t-shirt with Mona Lisa screenprinted on it but superimposed with Chewbacca’s head. So. There you go.

The ride to Dave and Buster’s was uneventful but a little tense. The gap between Steve and Sam in the back seat yawned wide and oppressive, rife with the things they left unsaid. Sam scolded himself that they needed to put their game face on; Steve glumly wondered if they could salvage some fun from this night. Sam was keyed up now, shoulders tight and hands fisted in his lap. That wouldn’t do.

It was so hard. Steve fought down his insecurities, all clamoring up into his chest like lobsters scrabbling over each other to get out of the tank. It brought back his old suspicion that Sam couldn’t see anything in him as a friend, because once, no one else did, either. He wasn’t in Sam’s league. How could he be? No one could look at Sam Wilson and not fall for that smile, and his easy charm, and not adore him for how genuine, kind and funny he was. “No one,” most of all, being Steve. Because, c’mon. It was _Sam_.

Sam was just putting his wallet back into his pocket while they stood in the crowded lobby, ears assailed by the noise from the arcade games and the sports broadcasted on eight different screens. He noticed Steve turning his hearing aid down a notch.

“Let me know if this is too much,” Sam reminded him on a murmur, leaning in so he wouldn’t need to shout. His grip on Steve’s shoulder was firm and comforting. Steve’s eyes flitted his way, and he gave him a little nod.

“Are you kidding? I want you to win me something out of the claw crane,” Steve countered.

“Someone’s got high expectations.”

“And a full game card,” Steve pointed out, holding up the little blue card and grinning wickedly. “I’m gonna beat you at skeeball, too.”

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?”

“Oh. Never mind. They’re over there.” Steve felt his stomach dip a little when he saw Truman waving them over from the bar’s back dining room, even sticking his pinkies in his mouth to blast a whistle their way. 

“Lawd, they’ve already started drinking,” Sam muttered, chuckling. 

“What does he have on?” Steve wondered as they made their way back through the crowd, but Sam cackled the closer they came as he read the shirt, and Steve followed suit moments later. Truman’s shirt showed a graphic of a bride holding up her hand with a ring on it next to a “defeated” groom that said “PWNED” above it in large block letters. 

“You poor sucker,” Steve pronounced in lieu of a hello. He let Truman bring him in for a one-armed hug, and Sam didn’t leave him hanging, either. He already smelled suspiciously of Jaeger. Steve’s ulcer sent up a prayer to him not to give in to peer pressure. At least they took a cab.

"Sam. Sam. Listen," Truman told him, grinning and chummy as he looped an arm around him, letting his fist dangle over his shoulder and giving him a little shake. “Listen, listen. Don’t let boyfriend outta yer SIGHT. Look at him!” Sam facepalmed. Okay. Maybe he had already had more than one shot of Jaeger.   
“He cleans up nice!”

“Thanks,” Steve murmured, and he was blushing and giving Sam a look.

“Somebody might scoop him up and tuck him in their hip pocket!” Truman cackled, poking Steve.

“Suuuuure. Short jokes. Ha, ha,” Steve allowed, making shooty fingers at Truman, who staggered back and pretended he’d been wounded.

“Have we ordered beer yet?” Sam pried, since that was the only thing other than Steve that he was counting on to get through that night.

“Two pitchers so far. You wanna chip in for the next one, I won’t say no,” Truman confirmed.

So. Beer. Wings. Every deep-fried, miniaturized appetizer that could be dipped in ranch. Sliders. Cheesecake bites. (Sam gave Steve the side-eye when he caught him sneaking around the jalapeno poppers. “No, Steven.” “But, _poppers, Sam! C’mon!_ ” “No.”)

Just when Sam and Steve were both beginning to untense, shoulders beginning to relax and drop down from around their ears, Riley and Jean-Paul showed up, fashionably late and just… fashionable, period. Jean sported designer labels and reeked of Burberry. Riley had a fresh haircut and shave, looked poured into his rough Levi’s and boots. He draped his snug motorcycle jacket over the back of his chair; Steve pretended Riley’s physique in his fitted tee didn’t annoy him. (He failed.)

More manly hugs for the groom. Riley pressed another full game card into Truman’s hand as he backed up. “Just topped this one off. How many pitchers do you want us to get?”

“Surprise me,” Truman told him.

Sam suppressed a groan.

*

Sam didn’t know when they’d progressed from the standard games like Pac-Man Battle Royale and skeeball (Steve really _did_ mop the floor with him; it was all in the wrist) to Dance Dance Revolution, but he was going to be feeling it in his calves and glutes in the morning. He was getting a little buzzed, but not quite bleary yet, from the beer, and Truman pressured him into a shot of Jaeger. (Ugh. Why?) Jean-Paul looked up periodically from his phone – Sam caught him taking a selfie earlier that night – to give Sam and Steve his best “I’m Judging You” smile.

“C’mon, buddy,” Steve beckoned, gesturing over his shoulder. “They’ve got a free throw machine.”

“Pass. Thanks.”

“Afraid I’ll beat you?”

Jean-Paul leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “No. But I don’t play with children. They throw tantrums if you don’t let them win.”

“Ooooooooh!” Sam winced (a little dramatically), but Steve crowed.

“Oh, ho! Is that how it is?”

Oh, it was _on_.

Jean-Paul threw up his hands, then rose to his feet. “Well, all right, then. If you don’t mind a little humiliation?”

“Sam? Do I mind a little humiliation?” Steve asked. 

Sam shook his head emphatically. “Nope. He does not. Not at all.”

“Sam would know. Sam knows better than anybody else about _that_.”

Sam nearly choked on his sip of beer. 

And Riley?

“Ooooookaaaaayyy. I’m just… gonna leave that alone.”

“Good idea.” Because Sam was enjoying a petty moment, and Steve looked like he was in his element, with Jean-Paul trailing him toward the free-throw machine. He beat Jean-Paul’s reach to swipe the token card through the reader. The balls dropped down from the bin, and the timer began to tick down in its enormous digital display. Sam was reaching critical mass from the noise surrounding them, but he watched Steve at the free throw border, pretending he was Donkey Kong throwing barrels. Say what you wanted about Steve being just tall enough to ride the rollercoaster and clocking in at a buck forty-five; he was wiry, had a great center of gravity, and had fantastic hand-to-eye coordination. Steve nailed three point shots during junior high school intramurals so that he wouldn’t have to run down the court as often (because, asthma). Jean-Paul was fast, but he missed a lot of rim shots. The backboards moved and jerked, throwing off their shots, but Steve and Sam came often enough that Steve knew the timing and rhythm, knew when to line up his shot and not to put too much spin on it.

“Ouch,” Riley murmured from beside Sam’s elbow. “Best two out of three, babe,” he called out to Jean-Paul. Sam suppressed a snicker.

“Best seven out of ten,” Sam told him. 

“Jean-Paul’s competitive.”

“Steve’s got twenty years of pent-up rage. He’ll try not to make your boy cry, but I won’t promise anything.”

Riley huffed, rocking back on his heels. “Someone sounds confident.”

Sam smirked. “No. Just… comfortable. I’m comfortable in the knowledge that Steve’s gonna beat the socks off of your boyfriend at free throws.”

“Yeah. Fiance.”

That jerked Sam to attention. “What?”

“I asked him a couple of weeks ago.”

The blood drained from Sam’s face. He couldn’t process what he was hearing, but Riley kept talking anyway.

“I gave him a ring. And… yeah. We might have been there at the store that day that we saw you to register for our own gifts, too.”

“Two birds, one stone,” Sam said hollowly, but he gave him a tight smile. He rocked on his heels and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Way to multitask. Always were organized.”

Riley rubbed his nape. “Sam-“

“Don’t. Riley. You’re better than that. Don’t.”

Steve and Jean-Paul paid for another round and began shooting. Jean-Paul made a few more of his shots this time, but Steve was egging him on, taking trick shots and profiling just because he could. 

“You told me you liked stability,” Riley said. “You just got settled in at your school. You wanted to work on getting tenure.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I get deployed. Or stationed at another base stateside.”

“And your fiancé’s fine with this?”

“He’s a traveling scrub tech,” Riley informed him. “He travels as much as I do. He can get work anywhere.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s helpful,” Riley corrected him.

“Do we really need to do this? Do we have to have this conversation?” Sam’s voice rose a little, and he stepped back from Riley with no thought to discretion.

“We never had a ‘conversation’ in any way, shape or form that would have been constructive, Sam.” Sam realized in a panic that Riley planned to attempt that now.

“Constructive? ‘Constructive?’ That’s what you think we needed?”

Truman and his other guests glanced up from their rounds of Mario Kart and foosball when they saw Sam’s state. Voice rising, eyes hard, the telltale set to his shoulders. “Lord, please don’t us get thrown out of here,” he muttered.

“Was a ‘constructive’ talk going to make us stay together? Was ‘constructive’ going to keep your eyes from wandering, Riley? Was ‘constructive’ going to make you stop nitpicking and instigating little spats with me over petty shit and admit you were just unhappy?”

Sam’s voice distracted Steve from his last shot; he let the ball fall back into the bin.

“Timer’s not finished yet,” Jean-Paul said.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered as he headed back to Sam.

“Who was ‘instigating?’ That wasn’t ‘instigating!’ Sam, get real!”

“I _am_ real.”

“More real than a Happy Meal,” Steve cut in as he took Sam’s arm. “Sam. Babe. You look like you need another drink.”

“I don’t need another beer.”

“No. I was thinking water.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fine. Right.” Steve promptly headed to the nearby bar and quickly poured a red solo cup full of ice water.

“Y’know, we’re about ready to move on,” Truman announced. “Thinking about heading to Hydra on Main.”

“Ugh.” Steve wrinkled his nose.

“We reserved the back room there, too,” Truman explained.

Which was a euphemism for “They have strippers.”

“Are you up for it?” Jean-Paul asked. He reached up to rub Riley’s nape, but Riley gently removed his hand. 

“I’m up for it. Why wouldn’t I be up for it?”

Jean-Paul tucked his hands into his pocket, then beelined for the bar to get himself a water, too.

 

*

Hydra was packed, but Truman bypassed the line out front and said their names were on the list. That earned their party a chorus of profanities and boos from the crowd when the velvet rope was lowered for them and they staggered their way inside. They moved toward the bar, side-shouldering their way through the crowd. Truman ordered another pitcher, but one of his groomsmen pushed aside his debit card and paid instead. Steve was turning down his hearing aid again over the pounding music and the chatter from the crowd. Steve preferred quiet dive bars with pool tables whose felt was worn thin and with framed pictures of old sports figures or fifties celebrities on the back wall, with signs out front with letters that didn’t fully light up due to questionable maintenance. In other words, the kind of bar where he could sit with Sam and shoot the shit in an intimate space. The bar dance floor was filled with strobe and fractals of colored light reflecting off of the disco ball, flickering enough to throw someone into a gran mal. The constant bump and brush of people passing by Steve made him twitchy.

Steve felt Sam’s hand land gently on his shoulder; he leaned in closely enough for Steve to smell the alcohol on his breath mingling with his cologne. “Sorry. This isn’t your scene.”

“M’okay.” Steve reached up and gave Sam’s jaw a little squish, and his smile was a little bleary. “How you holding up?”

“What? Me?” Sam huffed a laugh, gently removing Steve’s hand, but he didn’t let go of it. He tugged Steve toward the table in the back that they’d reserved, guarding him from the crowd, an automatic instinct. 

It felt right. Safe.

The table was actually two square ones pushed together to accommodate them all. Truman was in rare form, scribbling song requests on napkins to give to the DJ. Sam informed him that yes, it didn’t matter that he was going to be family soon, he _was_ judging him for requesting “The Cupid Shuffle.” And the Macarena. Truman went out onto the floor and followed the crowd, complete with the hand motions and more twerking than was _really_ necessary.

“Aren’t you supposed to be chaperoning him?” Steve asked Sam.

“No. Just have to keep him from getting arrested,” Sam told him simply. Lord only knew Ray-Anne was no doubt up to mischief of her own at her bridal shower, complete with male strippers, whipped cream shots, penis shaped appetizers and Jello shots, “scavenger hunts,” and running around the city in a mock wedding veil covered with condoms. Sam didn’t even want to imagine it, and he _definitely_ didn’t want to hear any details.

“He’s gonna be in a world of hurt tomorrow,” Steve mused.

“Life’s short, Steve.”

Steve mulled this as he watched a few of the groomsmen mingle with some of the women on the floor. Steve and Sam were huddled at the table. Riley and Jean-Paul made small talk with a friend of Riley’s that they spotted at the bar. There was a lot of head nodding and broad gesticulations. Jean-Paul smirked and preened. Sam was annoyed and resentful just watching them, but beneath the noise of the bar, the nineties R&B pounding its way through his sternum and the buzz of alcohol, somehow, somewhere…

Sam found closure.

Riley and Jean-Paul were on the same page. They shared the same mannerisms and confidence and had that “coupley” thing going where one waited for the other to speak, and they finished each other’s sentences. In the back of Sam’s mind, the mean thought lingered, _If he could pick someone like Jean-Paul, we would have been a disaster. Maybe I dodged a bullet._ It hurt to even acknowledge it. It hurt to think that he hadn’t measured up to whatever yardstick that Riley was holding up against him, and that Jean-Paul clearly had.

“You’re making the face again.”

“What face?” Steve’s voice had pulled him from his dark musings. Sam glanced at Steve, whose blue eyes were eating Sam up, looking inside him and reading all of his secrets. Sam didn’t find it unsettling. This was _Steve_.

He leaned his arms on the table and sagged companionably toward Sam.

“That look you get. The one that means you’re thinking too hard and blaming yourself for something that ain’t your fault.”

Sam laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “I’m not quite at self-blame yet, Steve.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Disappointment. And maybe relief.” It felt so strange to admit it out loud, but the band around Sam’s chest loosened once the words were out.

“You’re allowed to feel that way, y’know.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.” Steve bumped Sam’s shoulder, grinning at him. Sam shoved him back, and it turned into a poking match that culminated in Sam getting Steve in a headlock. Steve took umbrage by attacking Sam’s armpits, and both of them were soon gasping, snickering and red in the face.

“You two are sickening.” That was Truman, back at the table to refresh his beer, skin sweaty and gleaming from the dance floor. “All touchy-feely. Nobody’s got time for that.”

“There’s always time for _this,_ ” Steve corrected him, grinning. Sam snickered, adjusting his arm to drape around Steve’s shoulder (instead of the headlock, because Sam was going soft), and he gave Steve a string of loud, pecky kisses on the cheek, making Steve swat at him, pretending to wipe them off.

(He loved it.)

Steve was flushed, happy despite Sam’s rollercoaster of moods, and he glanced up at Sam. His smile was crooked and relaxed. It was so tempting to give in the urge to kiss that soft mouth, but they eased apart when Truman’s best man brought them into a huddle.

“The entertainment’s coming in twenty minutes!”

“Lord help us all,” Sam muttered. Steve crossed himself.

* 

Sam found out a half an hour later that Steve grew red as a beet during lap dances.

*

Jean-Paul looked funny when he was pissed off. “Look at his eyebrows,” Steve snarked into Sam’s ear as they watched Riley getting a lap dance this time.

*

Sam was bashful and apologetic during a lap dance. Steve thought it was hysterical, and adorable. He simply handed the dancer the rolled up singles instead of stuffing them into the strap of her G-string. He dipped back into his pocket and fished out a twenty when she told him that her earnings had to go to an expensive anthology for her class. Sam believed in financing higher education.

*

Truman tripped down a short flight of steps on his way to the rest room. That signaled that it was time to leave. Sam and Steve peeled him up off the floor and shoved cups of water at him once he was deposited back at the table.

“Hey,” Truman mentioned, giving Sam an indignant look. “You two haven’t danced. Music’s been bumpin’ all night, and you haven’t danced once.”

“Yeah. That’s not… that’s not happening,” Steve hedged. Sam smirked. Dancing was _not_ Steve’s thing.

“You two have to practice,” Truman insisted. “You know Ray-Anne’s gonna have everybody up and dancing at the reception. That includes you, Steve,” Truman boasted, giving Steve a small shove. “Go out and practice.”

“Nuh-uh. We’re good.”

But the DJ made the last call, twenty more minutes before the bar closed, and he turned down the lights, finally extinguishing all of the garish strobe, and the techno dance standards gave way to “Easy Like Sunday Morning.”

Sam looked fond, swaying a little to it. It was an old favorite, making him feel nostalgic.

“G’wan out there,” Truman told them.

“Truman,” Riley called over. “We’re probably gonna head out.”

Jean-Paul was champing at the bit, hand gripping Riley’s shoulder with clear impatience.

That clinched it for Steve. “C’mon.”

“Home?”

“Not yet. C’mon.” He tugged Sam’s wrist, and confusion flitted over Sam’s face for a moment, but then it dawned on him that a dance with Steve wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And maybe it would send a message, crystal clear, that Riley breaking up with Sam might have been the best thing, after all. Maybe it was the Jaegermeister, or the exhaustion, or just the aggravation of being in close quarters with his ex, but Sam kept a snug grip on Steve’s hand on the way out to the floor, letting him lead him into the thick of the crowd. He told himself that he was playing along, that Steve was just falling back in with their plan. They faced each other, easing close, hands resting on shoulders and waists, sharing shy, self-deprecating looks. Sam’s feet found the slow, even rhythm of the song; Steve’s slowly followed suit after a few missteps.

“Don’t wanna step on your toes.”

“You’re fine.”

“You don’t hafta lie, Wilson.”

“Just follow my lead.”

“Oh, you’re leading, now?”

“Just dance, Rogers.” Steve chuckled into Sam’s sleeve, and Sam realized how close Steve stood to him, swaying up against him. Sam could feel his exhaustion, because despite his small, slim stature, Steve felt heavy against Sam, like he was tired of holding himself up. Steve sighed against him, breathing in Sam’s scent. He was solid and so warm that he never wanted to let go. Sam held him, letting his palm trace the line of Steve’s spine through the snug shirt. It was so easy to hold Steve, when he fit into his arms so easily.

“I’m not gonna be good for shit tomorrow,” Steve murmured.

“Then don’t try. Sleep in.”

“Ugh. No more bachelor parties for a while, ‘kay?”

“Won’t hear me arguing that with you.” Sam snorted. “Besides, only one getting married any time soon is my ex.”

Steve stiffened in his arms. “That’s what he said?”

“Uh-huh. Shouldn’t have to go to that bachelor party.”

“Well, goodie for him, then.”

“Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to sound petty about this, not you.”

Jean-Paul and Riley made their way past the dance floor, toward the front exit. Sam saw Riley’s eyes rake over them as they danced, right as he felt Steve’s grip tighten on him.

“You want petty?” Steve told him.

“Steve… what are y-“

_Okay_. All of the voices in his head paused in the space of that kiss, making Sam yield to him, and he heard a groan of need escape him. Sam’s hand tightened around Steve’s shoulder, then stroked up the side of his neck until his fingers found his soft, gleaming blond hair. Sam shuddered beneath the kiss, and Steve took that as an invitation, sucking on Sam’s lower lip, urging him to open for him, and he met him where he lived. Sam tasted him, tongue moving in languorous strokes. Steve’s breathing sounded uneven, and Sam worried that Steve was getting too worked up.

They were both a little breathless when it ended, eyes glazed and lips swollen. 

“They’re gone, Sam,” Steve managed.

Sam had almost forgotten the point of it all.


	6. I Heard Church Bells Ring…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey. Steve, you okay?” Clint set down the carafe and lowered the volume on the set just as Steve dragged out the Swiffer mop.
> 
> “M’fine.”
> 
> “You just seem… off.”
> 
> “Nah. I’m okay.”
> 
> “Just okay?”
> 
> “I am,” Steve insisted. “Just a little hung over.”
> 
> “Wouldn’t be able to tell. That’s some of the maddest mopping I think I’ve ever seen anyone do, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s WRONG with these two?????
> 
> This is it. The wedding. The angst. The ridiculous prompt reaching its culmination with misunderstandings, hand-wringing, accusations, and I-told-you-so’s. There will be fluff. There may be some kiss-and-cry. Possibly. *walks off whistling innocently*
> 
> ... and there might be a part two to this chapter. Because this got long, and I’m running out of juice.

Steve managed to break apart first, leaving Sam dazed and confused. “I’m thirsty,” Steve told him. He staggered through the crowd, gaining momentum the farther away he got from his best friend. He beelined for the bar.

“Last call, man,” the bartender told him as he wiped a pitcher dry.

“Water,” Steve told him, and the man handed Steve a solo cup from behind the counter and pointed him to one of the remaining ice water pitchers sitting by the garnish dishes of citrus wedges and maraschino cherries. He dashed water into the cup and downed it; by the time Sam made his way to his side, he found Steve hydrating himself in long swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in that rangy, taut throat. The sight of it appealed to him too much in his already aroused, buzzed state, and Sam managed a croaky “You ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve confirmed. “Let’s ditch this popsicle stand.”

“Let’s go check on the groom, or my sister will have my hide.”

But Truman was bringing up the rear with his friends. Steve and Sam were both silently relieved that Riley and Jean-Paul had left, begging off from the offer to hit Denny’s for a preemptive, pre-hangover waffle. Sam and Steve helped maneuver Truman out of the bar, and they decided the half-mile walk to Denny’s might clear their heads before they cabbed it home.

Steve and Sam were strangely quiet, replying in monosyllables when the groomsmen raved about the night’s entertainment and misbehaviors.

“I’m _so torn up!_ ”

“Jaegermeister. A little bit does the job. Tru, I’m seeing _three_ of you right now!”

“Damn, I just burped, and I can taste what I had for _breakfast!_ ”

“Hey,” Truman said, nudging Sam, “what’s up? Why you look like someone killed your cat?”

“Don’t say that, Puddin’ might hear you,” Sam teased. “M’fine, man.”

“Might hafta buy you another lap dance…”

“I’m good,” Sam told him, holding up his hands.

“She looked awfully comfy,” Steve mentioned, shooting Sam a smirk. His eyes looked a little bloodshot behind his glasses. 

“Aw, don’t be jealous, Steve!” Truman crooned. “Sam’s only got eyes for you!”

“Good Lord, you are _torn up_ ,” Sam told him. Truman burped, and Sam was right in its path. He grimaced as he drew back, fanning the air. “You. Are. Nasty.”

They huddled in the lobby on the cheap, cold vinyl benches while the bored looking waitress gathered up a handful of menus. They took the table all the way in the back and took turns heading to the bathroom to drain the reservoir. All of them had glazed eyes and struggled to read the menus. The waitress turned her back on them after they confirmed that yes, they needed more time, and more water. Sam and Steve slumped in the booth, with Steve on the side closest to the wall. Sam wanted so badly to touch him in some way, but Steve’s body language was closed off.

What went wrong?

Sam ran the night’s events through his head, pinning down his talk – could he even call it that? – with his Riley as a possible reason for Steve looking the way he did right now. But Steve… he stepped in and tried to bring Sam back from the brink. He headed off the scene that Sam and Riley could have made and just… made him feel calmer. Grounded. 

Valued.

Sam gently knocked his knee against Steve’s, jerking him out of his drowsy reverie. “Know what you want yet?” he asked.

“Oyyyyyy… I dunno. Maybe an appetizer. Everything looks kinda good, but kinda _not_. This place isn’t my favorite.”

“It suits its purpose. This is the Last Stop,” Truman pointed out. “I don’t know anybody that comes here willingly at any other time of the day. “When I worked the night shift at my last job, we came here for breakfast at five AM. That was right before we went home to bed.”

“Sounds about right,” Steve said.

“Or after a Walk of Shame,” Truman’s friend Danny mentioned. “Grand Slam!”

Groans erupted around the table.

Truman sighed. “Kinda glad that’s over, if I’ve gotta be honest.”

“You’re not just saying that for my benefit, since I’m sitting here? And so I won’t tattle to my sister?” Sam challenged, raising his brow. 

Truman held up his hands. “Nah. I’m all about Ray-Anne. This is it. _This_.” He motioned around the table. “No more messing around. It’s been real, but this was _enough_.”

“I beg to differ. We’re still watching Sunday games at Dave and Buster’s. You owe me an order of wings,” Sam reminded him.

“I know that,” Truman snapped. “But no more nonsense. It’s almost the crack of dawn. I can’t feel my face.” That earned a few knowing groans and chuckles. “My damned ears are ringing.”

“From the music or the liquor?” Steve murmured.

“I… don’t know.” His shrug was grand and dramatic, throwing up his hands.

They gave the waitress their orders. Steve decided on a “lean” slam that involved a pitiful pile of scrambled eggs with spinach and two skinny strips of turkey bacon. Sam went with the French toast and sausage, more for the smell than anything else. The combined aromas, mingling with the thick syrup he poured over it all were comforting, somehow. He barely tasted the food, but the smell brought him back from the haze of a night spent drunk.

It still didn't help him make sense of the kiss.

It wasn’t just for show… it _couldn’t_ be, not when he felt so shaken and his mind was so far blown as they broke apart. Steve looked just as affected in the dark, prisms of light flickering over his skin and hair and reflecting in the lenses of his reading glasses. He was staring at Sam as though he solved the riddle of whether or not the refrigerator light turned off when you shut the door.

The light went on for Sam when he realized that he didn’t _want_ it to just be for show. How on earth did he explain – how did he _prove_ \- to his best friend that his feelings had changed? (No. That wasn’t right. They had always been there, blazing hot and bright for miles.) No one else in Sam’s life did him a solid like this, a debt too great to measure, let alone repay. 

And the words slipped free from his lips. He would blame the alcohol, inevitably.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For this.”

Steve’s expression flickered with so many emotions, and Sam felt a frisson of panic at the way Steve’s fist clenched in his lap. He dropped his fork with a brief clatter. “I gotta pee.” He stood abruptly, forcing Sam and his neighbor closest to the aisle to move aside. 

“He okay?” Truman asked with some concern, fumbling with an uncooperative bottle of ketchup before finally inserting his knife into it to scrape some out and loosen the flow. Sam didn’t point out to him that it was impolite. Steve was stalking across the dining area toward the rest rooms without the staggering gait that characterized their walk there. That alone put Sam on high alert.

_Oh, Lord. What’s wrong with me?_

He recovered and hunched back into the seat, toying with his toast. “Uh. He’s fine. Too much heat and whoopee,” he said, hedging and falling back on Darlene’s favorite description for when someone overdid it. “Might be time for him to turn in.”

“Oh, you mean for _you_ to turn in,” Truman accused. “I know I’m the pot calling out the kettle, Samuel, because I look at Ray with hearts in my eyes, but you and Steve are _ridiculous._ ”

Sam gave him a weak smile and waved him off. But he fretted the whole time that Steve was gone. He gave his plate half-hearted effort, but Sam only managed a few bites; after a while, it tasted like paste. When Steve made his way back, his expression was measured, and when they made room for him to slide back into the booth, he held up his hand, begging off.

“I’m gonna jet. M’tired. This was _fun_ , but-“

“Do you want to take it home in a box?” Sam interjected, because that panic was rising in his chest again at the thought of Steve leaving without… some kind of talk. Something that would clarify their situation and put it back on familiar footing. Clear the air.

“Nah. It wasn’t remarkable.” Steve usually never wasted food. He chucked the amount of his order plus a couple of singles onto the table and reached down to low-five Truman and give him a proper handshake. “Look, this was fun. Thanks for including me in your big day, man. It means a lot.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise, Rogers. You’re _family_.” 

“See you at the wedding,” Steve decided, and he gave a wave broad enough to encompass the whole table, but Sam included himself in Steve’s exit plan.

“We’ll call you in the morning,” Sam said.

“You don’t have to go already, Sam,” Steve told him.

“No. I do. I’m taking you home.”

“Oh. Kay.” Steve’s voice held a note of resignation, and he gave Sam a shrug that made him want to shake him. “We’re out.”

“Night!”

“G’night,” Sam added, and his hand dropped to the small of Steve’s back, barely touching him. Steve’s flesh felt hot beneath his thin shirt, and Sam wanted so badly to pull him close, but he felt Steve’s body tense at the contact. _No. He wasn’t having it, Wilson. Get a grip._ They left the restaurant stiffly. The low breeze buffeted them, making them feel unsteady. Sam was already texting their uber driver with the pickup address. Steve wandered a few paces away from him, an even worse sign that something was off.

“Did I do something wrong? Back there? You’d tell me if-“

“Nah. You didn’t, Sam. Don’t worry about it.”

“I feel like I said something that made you unhappy.”

“Unhappy? Pffftt.” Steve waved it off jokingly. “No. I’m fine. You were fine back there.”

That sinking feeling wouldn’t leave Sam. He sighed, rubbing his nape.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Steve was _so not okay_.

“I’m glad you came out tonight.”

“Couldn’t let you down, buddy.”

“You know you wouldn’t have if you decided not to, right? I mean, I know I bribed you with _coffee_.”

“Typical Wilson, twisting a guy’s arm to get what he wants,” Steve countered, but despite his light tone, his posture was still stiff and closed off.

Sam decided to let the conversation peter off. The two of them listened to the road noise and watched headlights soar by, breathing in the scent of French fry grease and bacon drippings as they contemplated the night. As each one of them tried to pin down where it had all gone _stunningly wrong_.

The driver dropped Steve off first. “Let me walk you up.”

“I ain’t gonna get lost, Wilson. G’wan, now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Boss.” Sam held up his hands, then saluted Steve. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Steve promised as he cruised up onto the curb, hand already dipped into his pocket for his keys.

Sam felt so hollow.

*

_Good, sweet Lord._

Jackhammers. Tiny gnomes with jackhammers and chainsaws were having a field day in Sam’s skull. He stared blearily up at the ceiling, wondering why it appeared to be spinning. Despite the food in his stomach from the night before and a preemptive dose of Motrin, his head was still pounding, and he was seeing his room, awash in the golden light of mid-morning, through a narrow, painful squint. It wasn’t a fully developed hangover yet, but it was well on its way. Sam cursed that he had to get up to pee, because that meant _getting up_. He rolled out of bed and literally _crawled_ his way to the loo, practically dragging the covers after him.

The shower didn’t clear his head. Sam listened to his fragmented groans and slow breathing over the pounding hiss of the water as it hit the tile. He leaned his face into it, letting it run through his hair, but it didn’t wash his cares away. Steve’s hurt, uncomfortable mannerisms at the restaurant bothered him, but he didn’t know how to solve this or make it right.

A twinkling idea came to him, causing shallow ripples. 

What if those kisses meant more. What if he had been misreading things. 

What if he misstepped. 

Had they created this thing between them? Was Sam just reading more into it because he felt lonely? Was Steve just being that amazing a friend to him that he could play along so gamely, not realizing that Sam was just as convinced as his family and his ex? He was playing along, right?

Right?

Sam shuddered and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool, slick tiles.

So much was at stake. It was just supposed to be a distraction, a way to throw off anyone that wanted an opinion of what to do with himself in the wake of his break-up. Pulling everyone’s leg a little.

What if he ruined his friendship?

“Damn it, Steve.”

They needed to set this right, put things back on their old footing. _Quickly_.

Sam needed to apologize. 

No. Scratch that. _Grovel_. Bowing, scraping, kneepad-wearing groveling and boot-kissing. In the light of day, the hurt in Steve’s face was sharper and better defined. Sam caused that.

Sam needed to fix it.

*

Steve was working his way through a tub of Clorox wipes in the kitchen, manically cleaning every surface to help him think. Clint was huddled in the living room, socked feet on the coffee table and guzzling coffee _straight from the pot_ and trying to stay out of his roommate’s way. He had the television set up too loud as usual, and Steve turned his own hearing aids down to cut himself a break. His hangover was _off the hook_ and it was ten times worse when he tried – and failed – to relax in a messy space.

And he needed something to occupy his hands and take his mind off of that disaster from last night.

“What time did you guys get in last night?” Clint called out.

“Around three? We closed Hydra down,” he offered absently. 

“Hydra? That place blows,” Clint claimed, looking at Steve as though he’d grown another head. “You hate that bar. You don’t do disco.”

“I know. I don’t. I was there to support Sam,” he told him, shrugging. 

“Support him? Doesn’t he love going out dancing? Figured it was his cup of tea.”

“We haven’t gone there together in forever,” Steve mentioned, thinking back to the handful of occasions where Sam dragged him there. More often than not, Steve ended up babysitting their table and beer pitchers while Sam went out and danced with half the girls in the club. Because he was _Sam_. Sam attracted women like a new puppy, a baby in a stroller, or a Chanel bag. It was amusing to watch. Painful, granted, but still entertaining.

Watching Sam dance did funny things to his insides, if Steve had to be honest. He was comfortable out there, owning the rhythm that Steve lacked, and that smile… Sam Wilson’s smile was Steve’s kryptonite. Just as bad as the women staring at Sam were the men who stopped him on his way to the bar for a refill. Once in a while, when they were separated throughout the course of the night, Steve would get a little attention from an interested stranger. He looked “approachable” in his way. Women in killer shoes would literally cool their heels, sitting by him and making small talk. He would buy them drinks out of courtesy. They would offer him a pity dance or two before going back to find their friends. That was fine; it killed the time. Then it was back to watching Sam. Once in a while, Steve would leave the bar with a man’s number, but it didn’t always result in a date, or even so much as a dick pic. Steve often deleted them before he even got out of the cab home. It didn’t help (or, maybe it did) that Steve measured his prospective dates based on Sam’s opinion. A grudging nod from Sam across the room or a flat look of disapproval was usually all the input Steve needed to cement his decisions.

It was fine, heading home without a partner for the rest of the night. All he did was lie awake in the dark, thinking about Sam, anyway.

“Where’s he at?” Clint inquired. “Figured you two would be hanging out here this morning. Y’know. Having brunch, or something. Or coffee. He always brings you those fancy coffees because you’re better than the rest of us.” Clint punctuated this with another gulp from the carafe.

“Uh. Yeah. He’s probably running errands.” Or sleeping it off, if he was lucky. Knowing Sam, though, he probably hit the gym, then went through his email inbox from his kitchen table, since he was a workaholic. The closer they drew to the wedding, the more Ray-Anne tightened the reins. Sam complained to Steve earlier in the week about the shoes for his tux, the fittings – the seamstress got a little “familiar” when she measured his inseam and checked the hem – and his sister’s constant nagging. Sam was keeping a countdown to his freedom, and Steve shared in his relief, not wanting to see him so stressed. Yet he dreaded the moment when Sam would sit him down, probably with a “fancy coffee” and tell Steve “Well, this was fun, but…” and they would go back to some approximation of “normal.”

Normal was empty. 

Steve didn’t know how he was going to manage this. He didn’t have a damned clue. It was so hard, being offered what you wanted, then waiting for it to be snatched away again just when you finally processed that it was yours, letting that joy ripple through you and light you up. Sam Wilson was all he ever wanted, or would ever want, and Steve didn’t know if he could take his feelings, once he’d acknowledged them and watched them grow out of control, and then just cram them back into their tiny box.

This had grown so far out of control…

“Hey. Steve, you okay?” Clint set down the carafe and lowered the volume on the set just as Steve dragged out the Swiffer mop.

“M’fine.”

“You just seem… off.”

“Nah. I’m okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I am,” Steve insisted. “Just a little hung over.”

“Wouldn’t be able to tell. That’s some of the maddest mopping I think I’ve ever seen anyone do, buddy.”

Okay. Okay. That wasn’t inaccurate. Steve still attacked the linoleum with prejudice. Clint didn’t like the gleam in Steve’s eye when he came out to the living room with the Dyson clenched in his grip, deciding that simply moving his feet off the coffee table wouldn’t pacify him. He escaped to the shower, letting Steve pull out the sofa cushions in peace.

By the time Clint made his way back into the kitchen (on the condition that he wouldn’t dirty it back up again, because _C’mon, Steve_ ) to make himself a grilled cheese sandwich, he heard a familiar knock on the door. “Want me to get that?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice was muffled by the sounds of the vac as Steve cleaned the hallway and the dryer vent. Then it cut off abruptly. “Y’know what? If it’s Sam, tell him I’ll just be a minute.”

Because his heart was hammering and he needed more time to figure out what he was gonna say. Steve escaped to his room and pulled out the drawers, searching for something presentable. Clint held court in the front room, and Steve almost felt relieved at Clint’s teasing, claiming “Oh, for me? Frou-frou coffee? Samuel, you shouldn’t have!” Steve managed to find a decent blue sweater and clean jeans, snagging his last clean pair of boxers, his questionable-smelling bath towel that he hadn’t hung up the night before, and he dashed into the bathroom. 

“Hey, Steve,” Sam greeted, his voice sounding casual enough.

“Hey. Be out in a hot minute.”

“No rush.”

“Yeah,” Clint added. “You reek, man. Use some soap.”

“Up yours,” Steve sang out before the shower thunked on full blast.

Sam set Steve’s coffee on the coffee table, then checked himself, using an old magazine as a coaster. He smelled Pledge and bleach; that told Sam _volumes_. He saw Clint’s sandwich scorching as he shouted obscenities at the screen. “Screw you, Team Alpha Male!” Sam went to the stove and flipped the sandwich for him, needing something to do while he waited for Steve to finish.

_This is the right thing to do._ They needed to get things back on level footing. Sam took down a plate and toasted the sandwich on the other side.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Clint scolded. “But if you wanna cut the crusts off-“

“We don’t have that kind of relationship, Barton.”

“Awwwww! Nat always cuts them off for me!”

“Do you see Natasha standing here?”

But that didn’t stop Sam from going behind Steve’s efforts, continuing the stress cleaning while Clint munched on his sandwich and toyed with his phone, live-tweeting the fight. Sam just had the clean dishes put away and the stove wiped off when Steve emerged, hair damp and neatly combed and smelling like aftershave. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“Hey.”

“Uh. I brought you coffee.”

“Are we having it here, or-“

“You’re ready to go, right? Let’s go.”

“Uh. Okay. Right.” Steve grabbed his keys, wallet and phone, shoving them into their respective pockets, then took his waiting coffee. The smooth sweetness hit his tongue, and he moaned in pleasure. Raspberry white mocha? Hello, hangover cure and peace offering.

Because it hit him, then, that this is what this was. Sam looked anxious, arms folded, as though he was struggling with what to say. Steve preceded him out the door, and there wasn’t any display of affection above and beyond Sam’s hand at his back, out of long habit. They buckled up, and Sam steered them out into midday traffic. Their hands bumped as Steve put his coffee in the drink holder, and he tried not to flinch when Sam jerked his hand away quickly, then covered by tapping his fingers on his knee to the innocuous music on the stereo.

God, it was painful. Steve’s cheeks burned, so many assumptions tumbling in his head. 

Sam wanted to touch him so badly. They’d grown so familiar and comfortable. Steve was his opposite pole. He sat too far away, leaning against the window and looking far too pensive.

“Where we headed?” he finally asked him.

“Just out and about.” Sam pulled into the strip mall parking lot, and Steve huffed in amusement. Barnes and Noble and Michaels’ were his favorite spots to browse on a Sunday. Sam had to be trying to butter him up. 

Or… maybe let him down easy.

But it was a warm day, with lots of sunlight streaming in through the windows when they went into the book store first. Sam followed Steve when he made a beeline for the art books.

“I love these reference guides,” Steve mentioned as he took down a pricey hardcover with pictures of models making various facial expressions. “Beats having to take selfies of myself or drawing in front of a mirror.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I get sick of looking at my own face.”

“Well, don’t,” Sam scolded as he sipped his coffee. (He really meant to tell him “I never could.” Steve would never forgive him for saying anything so cheesy, heartfelt or not.) He picked up another one for basic anatomy. “Look. Naked people. Get this one.”

Steve snickered. “Maybe if I take any adult commissions. I haven’t in a while.”

“Eh. Why? Too weird?”

“It can get weird,” he agreed. “And I don’t wanna leave that stuff laying around with Clint at home.”

“You couldn’t draw anything Clint Barton hasn’t seen or even tried before,” Sam reminded him.

“There’s just places we don’t need to go as roommates, Sam.”

“You sure?”

“Ohhhh, yes.”

They browsed a while, chuckling at some of the other references and flipping through large coffee table books of black and white photos and popular prints. They drained their coffees and danced around the elephant in the room, not wanting to abandon the peace of the bookstore and the easy conversation that came with it. Sam eventually splurged on a “For Dummies” manual on spreadsheets; Steve left the reference guide behind but picked up a gift card for Truman as a groom’s gift.

“He’ll like that,” Sam confirmed as they crossed the parking lot to head to the craft store.

“Know I would,” Steve agreed, shrugging.

Sam wasn’t big on the craft store, but Steve… it was fun to watch him light up just like his mom and sister did whenever they dragged Sam in there. Steve went straight to the drawing and drafting section with one of those wheeled baskets, and Sam knew they would be there for a while. Steve tossed in ubiquitous supplies like vinyl erasers, a Staedtler Mars Drafting mechanical pencil, a pack of Micron .05 tip pens, another Strathmore pad, a bottle of gouache, a blending stump, and a pad of vellum.

“What’re you gonna do with that?”

“Make your sister a card. I saw some ideas for a fancy one on Pinterest.”

“You too, Steve?” Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s all my coworkers talk about. _All day_.”

“Come to the dark side, Sam.”

“No.”

“C’mon. We have mason jars. And rag quilts. And ten things you can do with a thrift store sweater.”

“Oh, Lord… I don’t know you.”

Steve cackled. Sam gave him a shove. Steve shoulder-checked him back.

“This was fun.”

“I couldn’t tell.” Sam peered down into Steve’s basket, mind boggled by the fact that Steve was going to go home and actually use most of this stuff. Steve was talented, and he was cavalier about it. “Oh, what’re you doing, Steve?” “Well, I’m just scribbling a little something.” *shows Sam a detailed ink drawing of the Eiffel Tower* “Just something I threw together while I was bored.” The store clerk was sickeningly fawning over Steve, gushing about “Ooh, what are we making?” as he rung him up. He scanned in all of the coupons from the circular without asking Steve if he had any, since Steve was a favorite regular.

They headed back to Noodles and Company and ordered bread bowls of soup. Steve toyed with his, picking off bits of crust from the edge of his bowl and dropping them into the broth, chasing them with his spoon. Sam stirred his to let it cool for a minute, trying and failing to get comfortable in the hard vinyl seat.

“So. Wanted to talk to you about last night.”

“Yeah?” Steve gave him a coy smile. 

“Did I mess up?”

“Mess up? How?” Steve shrugged, feigning cluelessness, but Sam pressed on.

“I feel like… like I miscommunicated, somehow. Maybe I made you feel stepped on. You seemed a little frustrated when-“

“Frustrated,” Steve said flatly.

“A little.” Sam’s words were failing him, and Steve’s reactions were measured but brittle.

Sam _hated_ it.

“I know I asked a lot of you with this wedding, and with this thing with Riley.”

“Is there?”

“Is there what?”

“Still a thing with Riley?”

Sam shook his head. “He’s engaged.”

“That doesn’t mean that a thing is off the table.”

“That’s exactly what it means. That ship has sailed, Steve.”

“Riley seems like he wants to steer it back into the harbor, Sam.”

“No. He doesn’t. And I’m not there standing on the pier, waving him back. We’re done.”

“Are you happy with that?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know, Sam.” Steve chuckled and tugged at the hair at his nape, then sighed. “Why did you want me to put on a show for him? Why act like we were dating?”

“I know, I’m sorry, Steve. It put you on the spot. I know that was wrong of me to do that, and I appreciate that you helped me. If it’s been too much… if you feel like we need to stop this, just say the word. I want to apologize for laying this at your feet.” Sam kept playing with his soup. “And if it’s been awkward. You’ve always been in my corner. I feel like I haven’t done a good job of showing how much it means to me. And I feel like maybe I asked for too much when I asked you to do this.”

And there it was.

A cold, hard ball lodged itself in Steve’s chest, and his mouth went dry. “You weren’t asking too much. Laying it at my feet…” Steve chuckled, waving it off. “No. It’s… it’s never too much, Wilson. I’m your _friend._ ”

Sam gave him a hesitant smile that never quite reached its full wattage. “I know.”

“Yeah, well, don’t you forget it. See, you and I, we _do_ this. If I had an ex that I wanted to show off my cute new man to, I’d know the man I’d want to do the job.”

“Cute?” Sam rolled his eyes, but warmth flooded his cheeks. “Thanks, man. I’m touched.”

“Hey, that’s high praise, coming from yours truly.” The barely veiled honestly was sharp and did too little to calm Steve. His hand shook a little when he took a bite of soup-soaked bread. He barely tasted it. “You clean up okay.”

“Oh, just stop! You’re gonna swell my head, Steve.”

“You’ve already got a fat head.”

Sam threw a piece of bread crust at him. 

They ate and watched the flow of customers snake through the aisle to the front counter. Outside, the shadows were shifting, and the sunlight was filtering through the tree branches, telling them that half the afternoon was gone.

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Always does when I hang out with you, Wilson.”

“So. Is this okay? Is this us being okay?”

“This is us being just fine, Sam.”

“Steve. I know that maybe… maybe I’ve been a little excessive with…”

“Hey. Don’t apologize for that.” Steve pushed his glasses back up his nose with a smirk. “Can’t help it if I’m irresistible.”

“Oh, who has the fat head _now?_ ”

“It’s… it’s fine, Sam. Okay? You had to make it convincing,” he reminded him.

To say nothing of the fact that _Steve_ had his own feelings about “authenticity.”

Sam’s tone was shy. “Think they were convinced, last night.”

Steve tried to suppress his smile. He tucked into his soup, stealing looks at Sam. He wondered if Sam was thinking back to that moment. Remembering how it felt when their breath mingled, that spark of need.

Sam still heard the strains of “Easy Like Sunday Morning” in his head; his body remembered the sway of Steve’s against him, like they’d always danced that way.

God, how it hurt.

*

That left Steve staring into his closet a week later, rummaging for his dress shirt and the suit that he got back from the cleaners.

Somehow, without spelling it out in so many words, Steve and Sam made the decision to be each other’s “plus one” for the wedding. For consistency.

And for closure.

The rest of their lunch petered off into excuses about having to get back home to work on commissions and answer emails. Their goodbye hug – with Clint glancing up from the couch, with Nat’s head in his lap as they watched the _Godfather_ trilogy – was stiff and perfunctory. Steve ached with the need to hold on a little longer, but he released him quickly, wondering for a moment if Sam would stop walking him to his door once they “broke up.”

The thought made him sick.

So he went through the motions. Showered, shampooed, conditioned and shaved. Trimmed his nails. Flossed. Moisturized. Found dark socks. Polished his dress shoes. Put in his contacts, making the appropriate fish faces in the mirror in the process.

His slacks’ pleats were knife-sharp and even. He tucked the small kerchief into his breast pocket and straightened his tie. Smiled experimentally at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked dead inside.

He would just have to do.

“Give me a chance, Sam.”

*

The nagging feeling that Sam had _fucked it all up_ wouldn’t leave him as he got ready. Truman and his groomsmen were getting ready at Truman and Ray’s apartment, while Ray-Anne held court at their parents’ house with her bridesmaids. Ray-Anne entrusted Sam with a quick shot of herself in her gown and veil, and Sam’s breath caught. He texted her back a bunch of enthusiastic thumbs-up emojis and little hearts and smileys with squinty eyes. Ray-Anne sent him back the smiley with the tear drop.

_He’s gonna fall out on the floor when he sees you. Proud of you, sis._

“Who are you texting?” Truman demanded as he pulled up his socks.

“Your bride.”

“Did she send a picture?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” Sam lied. “You’re just gonna hafta wait in suspense a little while longer, man. Sorry.”

Truman gave him an aggrieved expression. “Is it normal to feel this nauseous?”

“Got me. I’m not an expert on this sort of thing.”

Puddin’ Cat strolled into room, looking eager for someone to pet her. She rubbed up against the legs of the sofa, purring like she was hunting for pants legs and laps to paint with stray cat hair. Sam wasn’t having it. “No,” he scolded. “Out, cat!”

“She just wants some lovin’,” Truman countered, snapping his fingers at the kitty to get her to come to him. “She’s probably stressing about all of the fuss.”

Truman was just as ridiculous as Ray-Anne was about that darned cat. Sam rolled his eyes as Truman skritched the cat under her chin, making her do the evil squint.

“Do _not_ walk down that aisle covered in cat hair, man. You’ll regret it.”

“Your sister will forgive me. Puddin’s her baby. Her fur baby, Sam. She’ll forgive that cat anything in a hot second.”

“You don’t sound concerned.”

“I’m wearing her down.”

“Who, Ray-Anne? I should hope so.”

“No. Puddin’.”

The groomsmen were ready, already assembling downstairs and outside for the candid pictures. Sam wondered how Steve was faring with his preparations. His stomach knotted more tightly as the wedding loomed, and he wished they weren’t in such a predicament, one of his own making. Riley and Jean-Paul were going to be right there in church, on the groom’s side, holding hands and dressed to the nines, answering questions about when it was “their turn.” Sam would be with Steve. Probably holding hands. Looking more than a little friendly.

All while Sam’s heart crumbled because _why the hell were they doing this?_

But he smiled for the pictures, because weddings weren’t the right time for self-deprecating and denial.

*

Steve rode over to the church with Nat and Clint, since Sam was going to be tied up for the next hour with photos and helping Truman get squared away in the waiting quarters while Ray-Anne and her bridesmaids snuck in from the other side of the sanctuary. It was comfortable in Nat’s Honda Pilot, but Steve’s stomach was twisting and his hand felt clammy.

“You look so nice,” Nat commented as she steered them into the lot. Her high heels crunched in the gravel as she took Clint’s arm, leading them toward the front steps of the cathedral. The cheerful stained glass windows winked in the sunlight. The weather was perfect, no clouds in the sky. 

“You clean up nice. You even got washed,” Clint remarked. “Sam’s a lucky guy. I have to talk shit.”

“Clint,” Nat scolded. “Not in church.”

“S’fine. I’ll talk shit _after_ church,” Clint decided. In church. Nat swatted him, unamused. Steve looked around the church nervously. He spied Darlene and Paul, affixing boutonnieres to Sam’s nephews and to the ringbearer. Devon was five and was squirming in his tux, not quite to the point of acting up. Steve knew how he felt. Kid was adorable, though; he had the Wilson family smile. Guests began to file inside and fill the pews. Steve wondered if he really looked all right, if Sam would be okay with it, if he’d be comfortable with the two of them mingling at the reception… if he would introduce him as his boyfriend, or just say “This is Steve” and let people assume what they wanted.

Steve wished things were different. In a perfect universe, they could make the jump from friends to “more than friends” without risk or repercussions or wondering if they’d fucked it up. But the world wasn’t perfect, Steve was _in so deep and stupid in love with Samuel Thomas Wilson_ , and the thought of it all crashing down in tatters left Steve cold. He exhaled long and slow through his nose, trying to master his panic, but his fingertips were already numb.

“Steve? You okay?” Nat inquired, frowning. She rubbed his arm through his suit sleeve, and he tried to wave it off.

“You look a little gray,” Clint added.

“M’okay.”

“Sit down. If you don’t like these seats, we can move, okay? But just sit down.” 

“Aye-aye,” he conceded, sinking down onto the hard wood pew. Because those traitorous thoughts were making him weak in the knees. What if Sam regretted what they’d done, not just acting like they were an item, but kissing him, letting Steve take liberties, clinging to him like Steve couldn’t let go-

“Hey, there’s your man. Catch him for a sec before he disappears,” Clint encouraged. Steve followed the path of his finger, and Steve’s ability to form words left him.

Sam was gorgeous, poured into a tux that hugged his broad chest and biceps, the white dress shirt contrasting with his dark skin. He was perfect. All of the old fears arose in Steve’s chest, how uncertain he used to feel, like it was too good to be true that the popular, athletic military brat would want to be his friend or be seen with him, let alone share a lunch table or build him up. “I just need a sec,” Steve muttered, because he did. Just… he needed time with Sam. While he could still have this.

Sam caught someone heading his way out of the corner of his eye while one of his aunts hugged him hello, and his expression went from politely smiling to awestruck when Steve loomed before him.

“Hey.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Back at you.”

“Wow,” Sam repeated.

“Don’t you both look nice,” Sam’s aunt cooed, gently touching Steve’s arm. “Ooh, let me get a quick picture of you, the light’s good over here.” Steve and Sam huddled together, and Sam’s arm automatically went around those narrow shoulders, face leaning toward Steve’s; he felt Steve hesitate a moment before his arm wrapped itself around Sam’s waist, and Sam longed to incline his face the rest of the way down and kiss him again. 

More polite smiling. One more move down the game board.

Steve moved away from Sam, giving him a little breathing room, but he felt a jolt of surprise when Sam took his hand and quickly led him toward the exit doors. “Sam? What’s up? Where are we going?”

“Just for some air.”

Because Sam needed a moment. “You came with Clint and Nat?”

“Yeah.”

“Would they be heartbroken if you rode with me to the reception?”

“Not too much, I bet.” Steve tucked his hands into his pockets. “Why? Miss me already?”

“Terribly, Rogers. My life has no focus and no light without you… okay, that’s enough out of you.” He swatted Steve when he started snerking at him, giving him a shove. “But, yeah. Back to what I said earlier.” He motioned to Steve. “Wow. You look…”

“Thanks. You, too. I like you in a penguin suit, Sam.”

“Don’t get used to it. It feels like someone duct-taped and Velcroed me into a straight jacket.”

“Couldn’t tell. Looks like it was made for you.” Steve stared off into the distance, toward the row of dogwood trees in the park across the road. “Riley’s gonna think he gave the ring to the wrong guy.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “No. No, he won’t. And he didn’t. Can we drop that, please?”

Steve chastened. “Sorry. I’m… I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

And because the universe was still imperfect, Riley and Jean-Paul climbed out of Riley’s Jeep Navigator, both looking like they stepped out of a Burberry print ad.

“I feel like we left some things unsaid,” Sam murmured. “Maybe that’s not working well.”

Steve felt a frisson of dread. “Can we wait til we have booze to say any of them?”

“I’m good with that.”


	7. Break Up to Make Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So HELP me. This story… I love Tumblr prompts. This almost became a high school AU for Sam and Steve, but I kept drawing a blank on why they would pretend to be dating. I scrapped three pages of the fic I originally had planned and made this a wedding AU. So sue me. My muses LOVED it, and this is the most quickly I’ve finished a chaptered story.
> 
> So. Have a serving of wedding schmaltz and fluff. And smut. I mentioned it briefly in the tags.

Sam huddled with Truman in the back conference room, barely listening to the groomsmen’s accounts of the weekend before. He kept glancing out through a crack in the door toward the side of the aisle where Steve sat with Nat and Clint. Sam talked them into moving up closer to the front before he left them. He didn’t want to tell Steve _I just need to see you._ The sight of him kept Sam grounded. Sam was almost as jittery as the groom, and he was just about to punch Riley if he didn’t stop shaking his foot where he sat, getting up intermittently to pace the floor.

“You realize this is typical, right?” Truman joked. “There’s ‘fashionably late,’ and then there’s ‘Where’s my purse, Truman? I’m not done with my brows yet, Truman. Go put on a different pair of slacks, Truman…’”

“It’s gonna be worth it,” Sam prodded, giving him a little shove. 

“I _know_ that. I’m not complaining. Just wish it was happening, already.” And there it was. Truman’s expression was eager and fond, and Sam felt a moment of envy. Was that how it felt when someone who loved you spoke about you like you were their whole world?

Did he look that way when Steve’s name came out of his mouth?

“It’s just more waiting,” Truman added. “What’s a few more minutes, right?”

Sam tsked. “Y’all have waited long enough.” Ray-Anne let Truman dangle for two years before they finally moved in together, and he didn’t give her a ring for another year, once they got their finances together to afford their townhouse. Sam and Puddin’ had shared an uneasy truce for those months that they lived in their no-pet apartment. Sam’s couches still bore the signs of Puddin’s tenancy. Sam occasionally still found her cat toys under the couch or his bed when he vacuumed.

Truman continued to fidget. Sam gave him a little space and went back to peeking out into the church.

The sunlight hit Steve’s face and hair where he sat, calm and serene, and Sam felt that yearning twisting inside him. There was something vulnerable and appealing about the cords of his throat above his collar and the way he combed his hair; the careful tailoring of his suit, well-cut so it didn’t swallow him or make him look like a kid trying on his dad’s clothes. Colored prisms of light refracted from the stain glass windows, landing on his dark blazer. Those long, slender fingers tapping the rail of the pew as he waited for the ceremony to start. Guests continued to file inside, and the organist began playing to signal them to finish taking their seats. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off of his best friend until the minister finally poked his head in and told them it was time, that the bride and her maids were already at the rear. Truman’s groomsmen filed out to meet them, and Sam clapped Truman on the back.

“Breathe, man.”

It was practical advice. Sam’s brother-in-law looked about ready to pass out. He rose from his seat, gave an emphatic roll of his shoulders, and they made their way to the altar.

“On your left,” Sam murmured to Truman as he flanked him as best man. He noticed Riley and Jean-Paul in the third pew from the front, in the pew in front of Steve, no less, and Sam huffed. _Seriously?_

Riley caught Sam’s eye and nodded. Sam nodded back, expression neutral. He glanced away quickly, because he didn’t need this drama right now (or _ever_ ) and tried to keep himself present as the organ music reached a crescendo. He saw guests readying cameras and phones and heard a few of his nieces and nephews acting up, earning themselves low scolds, finding themselves walked around the side aisles or bounced on hips or laps. 

Steve caught him the next time he looked up, and he gave Sam a slow-spreading smile, and in true Steve fashion, he made bunny ears above the back of Jean-Paul’s head. Sam saw Clint choking back a laugh and Nat swatting at them both. Steve’s hand was already down before Riley and Jean craned around, noticing Sam staring in their direction. Steve looked innocent when they faced him.

“Morning,” Steve greeted.

“Hi,” Riley offered, raising his brow. Steve had a gleam in his eye that Sam learned over time to fear a little. Jean-Paul looked bored, exhaling through his nose and slowly turning back around.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, only straightening up when the organist began the bridal march. Devon came down the aisle with his squirming younger sister. They made it most of the way before Brianna spied her mother and launched herself into the pew to hug her legs. The guests chuckled while Devon pouted and threw up his hands. Brianna’s mother simply scooped her daughter up, took Devon’s hand, and walked them the rest of the way toward the altar without missing a beat. Then came Darlene down the aisle, hand in hand with Truman’s mother, each of them carrying two long, white candles, the ones from Ray-Anne’s and Truman’s respective baptisms. Both women had tears in their eyes but held it together as they took their places. Sam was already choking up a little; Darlene’s face telegraphed her pride and anxiousness. He saw the deep rise and fall of Truman’s back as he tried to do what Sam told him, to _breathe,_ and he was fidgeting, hands clasped in front of him. Sam gripped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Down came the bridesmaids and groomsmen in height-ordered pairs, and Sam could feel Truman’s anticipation as the first rustle of white lace peeked into view from the doorway. 

The crowd turned and stood in a wave to the strains of “Here Comes the Bride” and as Sam had predicted, Truman _fell out._ Ray-Anne strode down the aisle on Paul’s arm, stunning in the princess-cut strapless gown. Truman clapped his hand over his mouth and made an incomprehensible noise, grabbing Sam’s arm. “I know, man. I know. You’ve got this,” he encouraged, because Ray-Anne was smiling up at him, eyes already sparking a little, then letting out a nervous laugh of her own. Sam’s brother-in-law was overwhelmed, doubled over for a moment and _so blown away by how fortunate he was_ to be marrying this woman. 

“C’mon, now. All right? Are you all right?”

Truman nodded, and tears streamed down his face, and it was almost too much for Sam, for Paul, for Darlene… Sam watched women in the pews wiping at their eyes and fanning themselves, and he knew that all of the months of insanity and griping and planning and micromanaging and histrionics and hand-wringing were worth it _for this moment_ between her sister and her husband.

Her _husband._

His eyes wandered briefly toward Riley and Jean-Paul. They were sharing the moment silently, leaning on toward each other, hands clasped, and Sam felt a flicker of sadness for what he once had. Jean-Paul actually looked like a decent person for a change, all contempt absent from his face. Sam read the clear message there, _This will be us._ And oh, how it hurt. It led Sam’s mind down paths he wasn’t ready for, slamming closed the doors that were still cracked with stunning finality.

The closure, when it came, pushed all of the air from his lungs.

Steve watched Sam for signs of distress. His best friend was smiling, but his eyes… so many emotions in those dark eyes. He was working through something painful, and Steve wanted to go to him so badly. He sat when the minister gestured for all of them to begin.

The sermon was beautiful. Darlene read the Scripture selection, and Truman’s mother read a poem by Maya Angelou. They lit the wedding candle with the baptism candles, and Truman and Ray-Anne said their vows. Sam’s aunt Deniece stood and sang “Ave Maria” in rich, ringing tones that gave the guests chills. Through it all, Ray-Anne and Truman just watched each other, holding hands and mouthing brief “I love yous.” One of the guests had a new baby that looked no older than about three weeks who began to squall, and Darlene looked smug: _When a baby cries at a wedding, the couple has a full cradle nine months later._ Sam bit his lip. If the family got sick of Ray-Anne as Bridezilla, they were dealing with something else _entirely_ once Darlene became an expectant grandmother.

They said their “I do’s” and exchanged rings. 

“By the power invested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. It’s my pleasure to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Truman Blake.”

Truman lifted the blusher of Ray-Anne’s veil when the minister gave the cue, and they kissed to a hail of applause that shook the rafters. Sam felt his chest finally unknot. It was over.

_It was over._

*

Steve waited on the fringes of the crowd as Sam stood at the back of the church, greeting guests and giving directions to the venue. 

“We’re gonna head over now, okay, Steve-O?” Clint told him, gathering Nat against him and giving her a little squeeze.

“You look a little rough around the edges,” Nat pressed. “You okay?” She glanced at Sam where he was hugging one of his aunts. “Are you and Sam okay?”

Why did she always have to be so astute? Steve’s sigh was ragged.

“We’re fine. It’s just been an intense day.”

“Intense. That’s a good word for it,” she said thoughtfully.

“See you guys later.” Clint gave him a firm pat and they moved on. Steve gradually made his way to Sam’s side, shyly touching his elbow.

“Hey.”

Sam’s smile lit up his face. “Hey, stranger.” And his arm went around Steve’s waist. “You remember Aunt Renee?”

“I do!”

And the two of them stood like that as the rest of the guests filed out. Smiling. Putting on a show.

Steve lied to himself that it didn’t have an expiration date. That they could give this thing a chance. It felt so good occupying Sam’s space, wrapped up in his warmth and strength, the scent of his cologne tickling his senses.

He never wanted to let him go.

*

When they reached the venue, Sam was solicitous of him.

“You wanna sit and have a drink at the bar, or…?”

“I wanna hang out here with you.” Sam was still in the receiving line, pointing people toward the tables by number and having them sign the guest book. 

“You can help take the gifts. Don’t forget to sign this,” Sam reminded him. Steve scratched out his slanty, narrow signature with the stubborn decorative pen. They fielded the traffic and smiled, shaking hands and doling out hugs and thank-yous. A few people watched them expectantly, wanting Sam to elaborate when he said “This is Steve.” 

Sam’s smile was fond. “He’s my date.” _He’s my reason for getting up in the morning._

“Don’t let him pull one over on you. I gatecrashed,” Steve joked, earning himself Sam’s side-eye. But his smile faltered a moment when he felt Sam take his hand, lacing their fingers together in a grip that couldn’t be interpreted as anything else. Sam felt Steve’s pulse jump and hoped his hand wasn’t clammy. 

“Let me know when you want that drink,” Sam murmured.

“I will.” Steve’s mouth was dry, and his thoughts were a morass of confusion. Sam gave his hand a little tug, leaning down to kiss his temple. It had the desired effect of turning Steve beet red. Sam loved his blushes and the little look he got whenever someone paid him an unexpected compliment. Hope spiked in Steve’s chest. Just for a moment.

The crowd grew a little louder as people enjoyed their first drinks and waited for the staff to finish setting out the buffet line. Truman retrieved Sam to join them outside for more photos. Sam’s jaw felt like it was going to unhinge itself from so much smiling, and his shoes pinched his feet. He longed for his quiet apartment and his PJ pants, fuzzy fleece blanket, the remote, and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s “Everything But the…”and the privacy to eat it all without judgment.

Steve lingered in the entryway, watching them take pictures. Sam was photogenic; Steve had tons of candid shots of Sam in his phone and in his old high school scrapbooks that he saved from his mom’s estate. The photographer was enjoying him, too, if the way they joked around was any indication. Sam hammed it up, shot after shot. Steve couldn’t wait to see Truman’s Facebook posts when they happened.

It was nice to finally have that mystery solved and finally pin down that nagging, weird feeling in his chest whenever Sam did something that confirmed Steve didn’t deserve him. Steve had fallen in love with his best friend, and they were about to pack it in and “break up,” and let everyone else in on the joke (was that how this even worked?) once the furor of the wedding died down. By the time Ray-Anne and Truman finished making out their thank-you cards, Sam would be telling his family “We’re taking a break. We wanted different things.”

His stomach hurt and the anxiety roared its way back. Steve clenched his fists and escaped to the men’s.

Steve turned on the tap with a shaking hand and dashed some cool water on his face to calm himself, trying not to spatter droplets on his pressed blazer. He was just blotting his cheeks and wiping the shine from his nose when he saw Riley enter, pausing for a moment before he went into the stall and locked the door. Steve took a moment to check his hair again and wash his hands. The hotel had complementary cologne in a small basket by the sink; Steve took a brief whiff of it and decided against putting any on. Steve heard the abrupt hiss of urine from the stall, followed by the deep flush, and Riley sailed out to the opposite sink, at first not sparing Steve a glance.

Steve had steeled himself for Riley to confront him, somehow, but he relaxed a little as he headed for the door.

Then Riley’s voice stopped him. “So. You and Sam.”

Steve didn’t turn around immediately. “Yeah. It just happened.”

“Did it?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh and tucked his hands into his pockets. He faced Riley and shrugged. “Just seemed like the thing to do.”

Riley nodded, shrugging. “Hm. It must have. Must have seemed like that for a long time.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve always had a thing for Sam.”

Steve’s civil smile evaporated. “Really? Hm. Wanna explain that to me, Riley?”

“Doesn’t need explaining. It was obvious.” Riley’s tone was calm and measured, and his smile was ironic. “You’ve always made eyes at Sam, Steve. I mean, I didn’t really notice it until Sam and I had dated for a while. But it was just the little things. I know you’re best friends. But no one stares at their best friend like you do, and no one talks about their friend like Sam did without there being something bigger behind it.”

Steve suppressed the giddy voice in his head that piped up _Sam talks about me???_ as he gave Riley a stern, appraising look. “What? What did he say?” 

Riley laughed shaking his head, pointing at him. “No. We’re not going there. All I’m gonna tell you is that it was _constant_. I always heard about whatever kind of day you were having, whether I saw you or not. Sam practically live-tweeted your texts. He was always showing me your Instagram and all of your weird paintings.”

“Hey!” Weird?!

“Every time we went on a trip together, he sent you postcards. He always took me to new restaurants with him and said ‘Steve turned me on to this place, they have great ribs, Riley.’” He mimicked Sam’s excited tones, and Steve felt guilt wash over him.

It was like a dash of cold water.

“Riley. It wasn’t like that. Sam and I were friends. Just friends. We weren’t up to anything while you two were dating.”

“That’s reassuring,” Riley told him blandly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“If you can say that about Sam, that says a lot about _you_. He never cheated on you, and I never made any moves on him, Riley. I knew who he wanted to be with.”

“No. Steve, I don’t think you did.”

Steve’s hand shook when he combed his fingers through the back of his hair and took a cleansing breath. “Hey. Y’know what? I could do this all day with you, Riley. You can stand here and make it out like I was trying to make my friendship with Sam into something it wasn’t. And I wasn’t. But you still left Sam, and _you_ left him for someone else. Don’t turn this around. That’s beneath you. He loved you.”

Guilt flickered over Riley’s features, and he mimicked Steve’s posture, hands in his pockets. “Yeah?”

“He loved you so fucking much. Sam always told me about _you_. He thought the sun shone out of your ass, Riley. Don’t tell me that my friendship with Sam got in the way of that.”

“There’s nothing getting in the way of you being with Sam, now,” Riley countered quietly. “I’m with Jean-Paul. We have plans that don’t involve me having to worry about taking Sam away from his job or his family, or having to uproot him from his _best friend._ ”

It was the clapback heard ‘round the world. Steve’s mouth clicked shut as Riley swept past him and swept through the door.

*

Steve was pensive and quiet at the bar. Nat and Clint were up and mingling with guests. Steve’s posture looked resigned and deflated when Sam finally caught up to him. He turned tired blue eyes on Sam and lifted his glass.

“Hey, Handsome. Come here often? Buy you a drink?”

“That was cheesy, even for you.”

“Hey, I’m buying!”

“It’s a hosted bar.”

The bartender took his order for a Tanqueray and tonic with lime, and the two of them leaned forward on the bar, just trying to unwind.

“I ran into Riley.”

Sam’s head swiveled in his direction, and he set his drink down. “And?”

“It was interesting. Yeah, let’s go with ‘interesting.’”

“Steve…”

“Take it easy. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“Mind telling me what he said?” Because Steve was upset, giving Sam his little nonchalant smile meant to allay his worry, when Sam translated it to mean “Who does Steve need me to kill?”

“He had strong opinions about the two of us being together.”

Sam barked out a nervous laugh. “Uh, what?”

“Yeah. Said it wasn’t that big a stretch. That I already had a thing for you. Imagine that.”

Sam, stunned, reached for his glass and tossed back half of it in one gulp. “He said that.”

“I’m paraphrasing… well, never mind. That was exactly what he said. That I _always_ had a thing for you.”

Steve didn’t add the other parts. He let what he said sink in for a moment. Sam rubbed his nape and released a bitter chuckle.

“Wow. Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve looked incredulous.

“Okay. Are you finished with that?” He nodded down to Steve’s vodka cranberry.

“Almost… uh. Okay.” Sam took Steve’s drink, tossing back the last swallow, then finished off his own in a display of excess that scared Steve for a moment.

That look in Sam’s eye and the curl of his lips made his heartbeat speed up, and he heard voices chorusing in his head with excitement when Sam took Steve’s hand.

“Let’s go mingle.”

*

For the rest of the night, they were attached at the hip. Once in a while, Steve would exchange a look with Sam, mouthing _Is this too much?_ when they would “canoodle” as Clint had put it, propping each other up. Holding hands. Kneading each other’s napes whenever one of them sat down. Punctuating stories they shared of how they met with brief kisses, because Sam wasn’t in the mood to hedge or wonder or question at this point, how to proceed with letting people know that he was over Riley and ready to move on. 

More alcohol helped.

Steve was game, following along and practically finishing Sam’s sentences. They laughed a little too loud and spent half the night on the dance floor, even though Steve didn’t dance, but it was fun for a change, liberating to be with him out on the floor instead of watching him from the sidelines, wishing for what he could never have.

“Never” was subjective.

“Are they looking over here?”

“Yup.”

“Good.” And Sam would pull Steve closer, laughing into the side of his neck.

Sam’s contact was making Steve giddy, making him believe, somehow, that this could work. That they could be “flexible” with their friendship. Broaden its definition a little.

By the time the DJ played a slow song, Steve and Sam were hopelessly rumpled. Sam’s body was radiating heat and his temples gleamed with sweat. Steve’s face was flushed. Riley and Jean-Paul were at the other end of the dance floor, on the periphery. Steve and Sam were near the center, a few feet away from Ray-Anne and Truman, who were making a mushy spectacle of themselves. Steve sighed from fatigue, but he felt content in Sam’s arms, with his hand splayed over the small of his back.

“This was fun,” Steve murmured.

“Hey, my family can throw a shindig,” Sam boasted. His words stirred the hairs at Steve’s brow, and Sam felt Steve’s chuckle, a low rumble in that smooth, deep voice of his.

Sam’s aunts watched their nephew and his best friend, nodding to each other.

“Saw those two coming from a mile away,” Deniece muttered.

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

“He’s a cute lil’ thing.”

“They’re a good fit. Look how happy he looks with Steve.”

“Birds of a feather.”

 

Sam was oblivious to his aunts, to the guests, and to his ex and his fiancé. He wanted to listen to Steve’s breathing and feel his pulse, swaying with him like this and feeling Steve frequently shift to sync himself with Sam. Steve wasn’t a gym rat, and he didn’t lift and he couldn’t dance and he had ridiculous taste in movies, but he listened to Sam and he came up with all of their best plans and picked Sam up every time he stumbled. He was salty, snarky and sometimes just plain _wrong_. He was gentle. Funny. Generous. He was all Sam could think about, and he wondered when Steve filled up all of those spaces in his life.

When did the momentum shift between them?

By the time they cut the cake, Sam and Steve were Macarena, conga-lined, and chicken danced-out. They watched the women assemble for the bouquet toss and Rayanne stand up on a chair, turning her back on them and doing a back-handed toss. The costly nosegay of orchids went sailing through the air, and the women whooped, screeched and dove for it. Ray-Anne’s friend Carol gripped it in victory, like the Statue of Liberty’s torch.

Steve and Sam just stared at each other, resigned. “Shall we?”

“Are you kidding? Where’s my catcher’s mitt?” Steve mimed slapping his fist into one as they rose from their seats and joined the group waiting for the garter. Ray-Anne had discreetly handed it to Truman, foregoing the “strip tease.” Because she had standards. Steve and Sam were laughing and elbowing each other like they were in middle school as Truman took the garter and slingshot-launched it across the room. 

There was no contest. Jean-Paul reached up from where he stood and plucked it from the air. He grinned at Riley and spun the garter around his finger, stealing a kiss.

“Who even saw that coming?” Steve muttered, feigning disappointment.

“It’s just his size. Don’t think it’s his color, though,” Sam chimed in. They smirked at each other, then dissolved into cackles.

*

They hung on each other as the night wound down to a close. Steve and Sam were back on gift duty, rounding up envelopes and silver foil-wrapped boxes and packing them into the trunk of the streamer-decorated getaway car. “Just married!” and more wishes that Steve and Sam couldn’t repeat out loud were scrawled all over it, complete with soda cans tied to the bumper.

“That’s a work of art right there,” Steve remarked.

“The nephews had a field day,” Sam agreed. “You can bet some of ‘em are gonna get torn up once anyone takes the time to read the car.”

“Old school justice,” Steve told him. “Sam, I’m about to fall over.”

“I can prop you up on a chair so no one steps on you. That’s about all I’m good for.” But Sam wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders and tugged him close. Steve’s eyes were bleary behind his glasses; he abandoned his contacts halfway through the night when they began to give him a headache. He slumped against Sam, hand bunching up in the back of Sam’s tuxedo jacket.

“You’re not good to drive right now, are you?”

“Hell, no.”

“Nat and Clint already left.”

“I’m not up for an uber.”

“Did Ray reserve a block?”

Sam considered it for a minute. “Yeah. They comped her a deal on the hall if she did.”

Steve’s eyes lit up.

They headed to the guest concierge and asked about the rooms, asking if all of the ones Ray-Anne reserved had been taken. There were two left.

“How much?” Sam asked.

“Two-fifty for the single. Three hundred for the double.”

Sam whistled. “Ouch.”

“It’s the weekend,” she told him apologetically.

“But you said it’s two-fifty for the single, right?” Steve piped up eagerly, already pulling out his wallet.

“Uh-huh.” She eyed them carefully. “I can have them send up a cot, if you want? There’s no extra charge.” She didn’t press for the details, but Sam saw her raise a brow at the two of them.

“We’ll work out the logistics when we get up there,” Steve told her. “Can we check in?”

“Oh, definitely!” She clicked through her computer screens and rattled off a list of amenities that the room hosted, promising them that it was about halfway down the hall from the ice machine and wouldn’t keep them up. “There’s a balcony, and the gym is on the second floor. The Jacuzzi is on the sublevel. Just use the note card and leave it in the slot by the bathroom if you decide to stay another night and need extra towels.”

Sam’s heart tripped in his chest as he watched Steve check them in with his ID. Within minutes, they had complimentary toothbrushes and paste, two key cards, and they were being pointed to the coffee and tea table in the lobby. The motel was plush; the gleaming marble floors had a high gloss, almost too much for their eyes to handle. Sam and Steve were flagging as they stumbled into the elevator, collapsing back against the walls.

“You look done in, Wilson.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

They wandered down to their room, counting off the doors. Two-oh-two, two-oh-four, two-oh-six. Two-oh-eight. Sam leaned his elbow against the wall as Steve fiddled with the key card.

“Hate these stupid things. They never read right.” He kept slipping it into the slot and removing it with no luck.

“You have to finesse it. Don’t do it so fast,” Sam murmured as he closed in on Steve, pausing his attempt to try it again. His arm crept around Steve’s waist, and he drew him back against him, breathing in the scent of his hair. Sam guided Steve’s hand, still holding the card, back to the slot and made him pause a beat before removing it. The light flashed, and the handle gave way, letting them in.

Steve’s pulse quickened and he felt a tightening in his gut. His skin felt hot, and Sam hadn’t let go of him yet. He didn’t question it. He simply took Sam’s hand and led him inside. “You can use the bathroom first, if you want,” Steve told him hoarsely. “I just wanna get out of these shoes, they’ve been killing me all night.”

“Me, too.” Sam’s voice was low and thick, and he reluctantly let Steve let go of him, watched him fuss with various objects in the room.

“Whaddya wanna bet that this remote only gets four channels?”

“Don’t pay for the wi-fi. We can Facebook post about this shit when we get home,” Sam suggested.

“You sure? You don’t want to tweet about this? Instagram it? Snapchat?”

“I don’t Snapchat. Last time I checked, I wasn’t twelve.” Steve pretended to pull a dagger out of his chest, feigning a look of suffering.

“You wound me, Sam. Truly.”

Sam shook his head, removing his jacket. Steve sank down to the bed, giving the mattress a test bounce.

“Hard as a rock. Sweet!”

“How are the sheets?”

“Decent. Feels like at least three-hundred thread.”

“For these prices? And they’re not even Egyptian cotton?”

“Can’t always get what you want. We’re just gonna hafta slum, pal. I can’t indulge all of your champagne wishes and caviar dreams.”

“Oh, you can’t? Because that’s what’s characterized our friendship up until now?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah.”

Sam went back to divesting himself of the tux, stripping down to his undershirt, boxers and socks. Steve hung both of their jackets up in the closet and contemplated the mini-bar.

“Think they have anything decent in here?”

“It’s never worth it, Steve.”

“You’re right. You’re always right. It never is.”

“Steve.” Sam paused a moment, then eased back onto the headboard. “Bring it in for a second.”

Steve eased himself onto the foot of the bed and watched him. Sam saw him swallow roughly, and he took off his glasses. “Hey.”

“Hey. We said we’d talk.”

“Seems like as good a time as any.”

“I think maybe we waited too long,” Sam murmured. 

And if that didn’t send panic racing through Steve’s chest, then nothing could. “Too long…?”

“You said Riley told you some things about us. About how he felt about our friendship.”

“He was pretty blunt. We got along before, Sam.” Steve licked his lips and raked his hand through his hair. “Look, Sam, please don’t think that I’d ever get in the way of you and Riley! God, Sam, I didn’t want-“

“You didn’t,” Sam told him. 

“I never would-“

“I know you wouldn’t. Steve. C’mon.” Sam smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have to argue this with me. I trust you. You’ve been my best friend since seventh grade. For so many reasons.”

Because now Sam was playing the friend card. Steve’s heart sank. 

“Because you need someone to geek out with over Star Trek, right? Old Star Trek,” Steve reminded him. “Or those old Bruce Lee movies we used to watch on UHF on Saturday when the cartoons were over.”

“You fulfill that need. You do it well.” Sam’s smile was soft, and it was killing Steve. He picked at a loose thread in the cheap crocheted comforter. “Thanks for being here with me, Steve.”

“You didn’t even have to ask.”

“I asked a lot. Steve, if it hurt you… if you ever feel like I’m asking too much, just put me in check. Call a time-out. I’d never want to hurt you.”

Steve shook his head. He felt so hollow and didn’t know why the right words weren’t coming, why he couldn’t just tell Sam what he wanted. His worst fear, that Sam wouldn’t be able to move past just keeping him a friend was about to be realized. “You couldn’t. Sam, you’re fine. I wanted to… be there for you.”

Steve’s voice faltered ominously, and the words dried up on his lips. His throat felt all closed up and his eyes sparked, and he felt the bed shift under Sam’s weight.

“Steve.” He heard Sam clear his throat, letting out a breath that sounded unusually shaky to Steve’s ears. And then Sam was in front of him, kneeling in front of him, and he felt him reach up and wipe away the tear that slipped down his cheek. “Steve. Talk to me?” Sam pleaded. His hand felt warm where it cupped Steve’s knee, his thumb rubbing soft little circles over his skin.

“Sam.”

“When I said we needed to talk, I think I put out the wrong signals. My line of work is asking people about their feelings. I’m not always good at figuring out my own, Rogers. You know this about me by now.” He gave Steve’s knee a little shake, and Steve gave him a wet-sounding laugh.

“Yeah. There you go, sounding all adulty and reasonable again.”

“No. I’m a walking disaster. But I’m even worse when I don’t have you around, Steve.” Sam flicked away another tear, letting that hand rest on Steve’s other knee. His own knees caged Steve’s feet, and Steve reached down and played with Sam’s fingers, tracing his thick knuckles. “I kept asking myself why Riley left and how he could give up what we had. And something you said tonight… it just… it changed everything.” Sam’s hands stroked Steve’s knees soothingly, and Steve shivered at the caress and the way Sam was watching him. “Because maybe I did talk about you. All the time. Maybe I got used to always running to you when I had something on my mind. We’ve got a pretty good track record. Feeling bored? Call Steve!” he boasted in his best TV announcer voice. “Need help making a life decision? Try Steve Rogers!” Steve smiled, but he shook his head. When he mopped at his cheeks, they felt cool and clammy. Sam reached up and cradled his cheek in his palm, and at that point, Steve was so gone, hearing everything click into place. “If anyone messed up what I had with Riley, it was _me_. Because I think I always wanted you. I was just scared shitless that you’d turn me away.”

“Sam?” Steve’s voice wavered, hoarse and uncertain.

“I’ve been gone on you for so long, Steven.”

The meaning sunk in, and Steve’s eyes grew dark with need. “So. All that downstairs. That wasn’t just an act.”

“Hell, no.”

“Okay.”

“And nobody’s watching right now, Steve. So if kissing me is something you can do without an audience-“

“You wanna know what I wanna do to you without an audience, Wilson?”

And desire bloomed in Sam’s eyes as he gave Steve a brief nod, lunging up and shoving himself into the space between Steve’s knees and kissing him hard. Steve groaned in relief and pleasure at the firm nip of Sam’s mouth, the taste of him, sharp with a hint of gin and lime. And Sam’s hands were on him, gripping his waist, tangling in the hem of his undershirt.

The kisses came furiously for a while they processed that this was actually happening. That something could feel this good, this right. Sam made an indecent sound when he felt Steve’s fingers kneading his nape, combing through the back of his hair as the kiss deepened. Steve wasn’t shy about it. He opened for him, sucking on Sam’s lower lip hungrily, and Sam’s self-control snapped. His tongue swept inside Steve’s mouth in a hot, hungry caress, making them both tingle.

“I want this,” Steve hissed. “I want you.” 

“Okay.”

“Need to see you.” And he clutched at the back of Sam’s undershirt and yanked it up, peeling it off of him and chucking it across the room, interrupting their kiss. Sam snickered.

“Eager?” he accused as he leaned back in, teasing Steve’s lips. His blue eyes were dark with desire, devouring the sight of him so bare.

“Lose the briefs, too, Wilson. Socks are optional.”

“Someone’s bossy.”

“Someone’s gonna give their best friend the blowjob of their life once they give up the shorts.”

Within seconds, two pairs of boxers, an undershirt and a wadded up pair of socks lay on the floor where they landed, and Steve and Sam stretched out on the bed, a tangle of limbs and flushed skin. Steve was self-conscious about his body, how he looked when he saw his reflection, nothing but flat planes and knobby joints, but Sam thought he was breathtaking. Steve was on his back, caged in Sam’s arms where he drank kisses from his mouth, taking his time, giving himself the chance to touch him and explore his flesh, searching out his pleasure points that caused him to make that _look_. They stayed like that, moving in a slow, sinuous rut with the bedside lamp turned on so that Sam could see _all of him_. The prominent collarbones. The spray of sandy freckles across his chest and shoulders. The dusting of hair on his long, tapered legs. Tannish-pink nipples that ruched when Sam drew them into his mouth.

The swollen, rosy dick that kept buffeting up against his, wanting Sam’s attention. More than adequate, nestled in a light brown thatch of hair. Each thrust of Sam’s hips trapped it between their bodies, and the tip drooled milky drops onto Steve’s flat stomach.

“I was… going to go… down on you,” Steve breathed as Sam kissed his way down his throat, down the center of his chest.

“We’ll get to that.”

“Okay…”

Any argument that Steve had died on his lips, then Sam opened his and drew him inside. Steve’s head tipped back into the pillows and his eyes shuddered. Sam hoped to God (somewhat belatedly) that none of his family members were in the neighboring rooms. Sam moaned at the taste of him, the silky feel of the plump head bobbing with each lap of his tongue. Steve’s hips were held flat against the bed, almost bruised by Sam’s fingers, but he kept jerking further up into that damp, blazing heat. 

“Sam!” Was that Steve’s voice? It sounded so choked and desperate and needy. His legs spasmed and he felt like he was floating outside of his body. His foot traced the contour of Sam’s waist, rubbing the arch along the hard curve. His fingers wove their way back into Sam’s hair, not tugging on it, just stroking its coarse texture. “S’good. So good.”

Sam lingered there, wanting more of those pitchy, uneven moans, the possessive way Steve held Sam’s name in his mouth. He had a claim on Sam from the moment he whipped his wallet out to rent the room, not giving a damn if they had a double. Sam wondered, then, if Steve was taking that gamble on him rejecting him. If he’d worried as much as Sam had about the outcome of their talk. 

It was moot. Steve’s body was responding to him, muscles drawn taut beneath him. Sam eased Steve’s legs up, knees hooked over his shoulders, and he took him down his throat. The scratch of Sam’s short beard chafed Steve’s sensitive inner thighs, and Sam caressed those long, inviting limbs as he savored him. Steve’s shaft swelled and stiffened in Sam’s mouth. He teased Steve’s with light strokes, enjoying how it drew up into a firm globe.

“If you don’t let me up, I’m not gonna last.”

Sam shook his head, just the briefest motion, moaning his argument into Steve’s flesh, and Steve collapsed back into the pillows. His limbs went slack.

“Okay. Have it your way…”

“Sam’s Way” was nearly a half an hour of slow, sweet torture, leaving Steve a pleading, crying mess until he finally climaxed, releasing down Sam’s throat. Sam’s cheeks were hollowed out, long lashes fanned out over their crests when his eyes closed. Steve felt the walls of Sam’s throat pulling at him, draining the last of it from him. His body shuddered and spasmed, and the waves of pleasure rippled through him, leaving him spent and lax. Sam pulled off of him, giving the tip one last, languid suck, then rearranged himself until he could lay his head against Steve’s chest, listening to his hammering heartbeat.

“Okay,” Steve rasped. “You love me.”

“You’re for real right now? You’re straight-up asking me right now, after _that_ , if I love you.” Sam’s smile was smug, though, and he enjoyed the rumble of Steve’s laugh beneath his cheek.

“Just wanted to make sure. If not, this was the best hasty judgment I ever made-“

“You’re just wrong.”

“I know. I’m a jerk. You knew that.”

“You’re _my_ jerk.”

“You knew that, too.”

The air conditioning kicked on in the room, and cool air fanned over their bare, gleaming skin. Steve’s arms were wrapped tight around Sam, and he was drawing little patterns over his skin with his fingertips. Sam yawned, a gusty, jaw-popping sound, and his limbs spasmed against Steve before he settled back against him.

“I love you, too, Wilson.”

“Good. Otherwise, this might be weird.”

They gradually dozed off, waking briefly to slap off the lamp and burrow under the covers. Sam woke around dawn to the sensation of warm lips tracing down his spine and flipped over, then found himself engulfed, with Steve looming over him, fully rousing him in minutes. Steve followed through on his promise, kissing a thorough, wandering path down Sam’s body. Sam thought he might have blacked out when he came, and Steve made indecent sounds when he legitimately _tugged_ on Steve’s hair as he finished.

The hotel’s sheets were cheap, but the bed was _top-notch_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning a teeny epilogue at some point, but this is where I wanted to take this story. Thanks for sticking around. Once again, the author is a horrible person, but grateful for the feedback received.


	8. House Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love often means compromise, rearranging your living space, and cat sitting. Sam doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Sorry I’ve been so lazy with getting you the epilogue to this story. Life has been weird. And busy. My son is finishing up his football season, this election cycle has been emotionally draining to me, and the arrival of the darker months and the holidays do wonky, destructive things to my mood. My fic and art updates get sparse, and angsty. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy everyone else’s chapter uploads, though. I will read those in the wee hours, my phone screen throwing a bluish glow on my puffy, tired face in the dark while my family is asleep, because reading fanfiction is as cathartic to read as it is to write. Thank you for being gifted, thank you for being vocal about things that you liked about this story, and thank you for just being cool people. You really are.

“Okay? I didn’t want to lay down on the couch,” Sam groused when he noticed Steve on one end of the furniture in question, legs stretched out on it, with his laptop propped on his lap. Puddin’ was curled up between Steve’s ankles, flicking her tail back and forth and treating Sam to her Death Squint.

“It’s fair game as soon as your butt leaves it, pal,” Steve reminded him.

“Don’t indulge this furball,” Sam told him, returning the cat’s glare halfheartedly. Puddin’ and Sam were on the outs ever since he caught her cheerfully shredding the back of the cushion on one of his dining room chairs. Sam’s efforts at redirecting his cat-niece back to her upholstered kitty condo proved fruitless. Puddin’, just to spite Sam, adored Steve and constantly kissed up to him, occupying Steve’s lap every time he sat down, winding her way between his legs whenever he was at the kitchen counter making dinner, kneading him and purring like a motor whenever he ruffled the fur around her cheeks. The cat was _shameless_. Sam saw through her tricks: Puddin’ was competing with Sam for Steve’s affections and trying to _edge Sam out._

“Hey, ya snooze, ya lose,” Steve teased. Sam narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend and folded his arms.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook either, there, Stephen Grant.”

“Ooooooh, middle name. Uh-oh…”

“Someone made themselves awfully comfy in my spot while I was fixing lunch.”

“And I was just about to thank you for that, too. So caring and thoughtful, Samuel.”

“You’re doing the dishes.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s not be hasty…”

Sam raised his brows in challenge. “Maybe if someone had found their way to the stove and put the pot on the burner and _turned it on_ and thrown in the turkey-“

“And you have a real gift for that, Sam. Have I ever told you that?” Sam told himself that he was immune to the ol’ Rogers Charm, especially that smile that he was hitting him with now, batting those dark, thick lashes at him. He _told_ himself that as he leaned down and took Steve’s laptop from him, making him yelp.

“What!?!”

“Do we need to have the talk again?” Sam implored as he grasped Puddin’ by the scruff of the neck and set her down on the floor, supplanting her once again as he sat on the couch. Steve made grabby hands for the laptop, then sputtered in amused protest as Sam stretched out again, head in Steve’s lap, laptop on his own, now, wiggling around to get comfortable against Steve’s skinny thighs.

“Is that how it is?” Steve demanded.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” Sam assured him. Steve took one of the throw pillows and brandished it at Sam like he was going to swat him with it, but Sam didn’t even flinch as he clicked through the screens Steve had been surfing. He felt Steve prodding him and lifted his head so Steve could prop him more comfortably, tucking the pillow under Sam’s head. Then Steve’s fingers found their way into Sam’s hair, massaging and scratching his scalp. Sam made a contented noise.

“You’re a brat.”

“I’m the brat who’s getting out of dish duty.”

“No good deals?”

“Not unless we push the departure date out by another month,” Steve complained.

“Then we might end up pushing it out another whole semester,” Sam murmured. “Damn it.”

“No. Don’t worry about it. We can do this,” Steve assured him. “I might be able to pick up another commission or two.”

“I don’t want you to rush through commissions if we can just wait to take our trip,” Sam argued. “The whole point was for us to take a break.”

“If we wait until June, we’ll have to deal with the mob of tourists,” Steve reminded him. Sam was frowning at the rows of high fares in the “Wanna Getaway?” column of search results on the Southwest Web site. “We’ll have to pay a grip for ferry parking and a hotel.”

“It’s nicer on the Cape after June, though,” Sam reminded him. “Go any other time of the year, and the weather changes every five minutes.”

Steve knew he had a point. He remembered the photos Truman and Rae took of their trip to Martha’s Vineyard that they posted on Facebook. In some of the shots, there were thick gray clouds rolling in the background; then they saw them with their windbreakers wrapped around their waists, sleeves rolled up and wearing sunglasses, with bright, buttery sunlight shining down on their skin. The pictures were taken on the same afternoon. But they were happy and glowing when they returned from their honeymoon, loaded down with souvenir seashells, t-shirts from Howlingbird Studios, and fattened up from all the fried clams and pastries from Pie in the Sky. Sam was craving time on the beach with Steve and the chance to be annoying tourists themselves. They had a lot of catching up to do, so they could just find their flow as a couple, and that required time alone together.

Puddin’s opinion differed from his on the subject. Rae-Ann took liberties with Sam and Steve’s generosity and insisted that Puddin’ told her that she missed her very favorite cat uncles in the world and wanted nothing more than to stay with Steve and Sam while her mommy and daddy whooped it up on the Vineyard for three weeks. She gave Sam precious little time to suggest an alternative, grinning up in his face as she deposited the cat carrier on his living room floor and opened the little door, releasing twelve grumpy pounds of long hair and snaggle teeth. Just when Sam thought they would get their bed back to themselves – shutting Puddin’ out of the bedroom resulted in hours of frantic meowing and scratching at the door – Rae-Anne told them that she and Truman needed a couple more days to unpack, air out their apartment and clean out the items that spoiled in their kitchen, and could Steve and Sam keep Puddin’ a little longer, since they all got along so well?

Puddin’ was nonplussed about losing her spot. She merely jumped up onto the arm of the couch, purring and batting at Steve, side-swiping her cheek against his shoulder until he began scratching behind her ears with those long, talented fingers.

“Hey, Cat, wait your turn,” Sam warned. But the cat ignored Sam and curled up into a ball, purring away and flexing her paw just shy of letting her claws dig into Sam’s scalp in umbrage. 

*

Baby steps.

The three of them were still finding their way – Sam and Steve were, more accurately, and that meant a lot of revision of old rules, for both of them.

Steve learned the hard way not to give Puddin’ dairy products, no matter how tempting it was to give her the last drops of milk in his cereal bowl. Milk gave Puddin’ the poots. Cat gas attacks were no joke.

Steve learned to lock the bathroom door when he needed to sit for a spell, not merely close it. Cats had strong heads. He thought Sam was joking. (“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” “Well, you should be.”)

Steve learned to save often when working on his laptop, and to close the lid when he got up from it. Laptop keyboards made tempting, warm cat beds. 

Sam learned that Steve had a deviated septum and snored like a three-hundred-pound truck driver. Sam learned that a poke in Steve’s ribs earned him a swat from his man as he woke, but the resulting change in position saved Sam’s ears from the assault once he pulled Steve over to spoon himself against his back. Steve made the _best_ little spoon. As a rule, Steve got the fluffy pillow. Sam slept better when he was flat. Or, when he was wrapped around Steve’s compact body, breathing in the scent of his hair.

The rest of the rules were simple enough.

Whoever cooked dinner didn’t have to do the dishes. Being laid up on the couch with a migraine or walking pneumonia also guaranteed dishwashing immunity; Sam didn’t mind dishpan hands when the love of his life couldn’t breathe without his lungs making that weird whistling noise that scared Sam to death. And when Steve _did_ get that sick, Sam would stress-clean every inch of the apartment and hover over Steve, earning himself Steve’s long-suffering look and the injunction “Will ya quit babyin’ me already, Wilson?! Sheesh…” even as he grudgingly, grumpily cuddled against Sam as soon as he sat down. Steve could mutter all he wanted about Sam worrying over him, but that didn’t stop him from scooching his feet into his lap to be rubbed, since he _just_ so happened to be there, with nothing else to do…

Sam learned not to touch, bump or so much as breathe on Steve’s still-life props when he had them laid out on his drawing desk. The incident that spawned that rule resulted in lots of loud, muttered curses from Steve as he sat trying to rearrange his props the way he had them, toying with the lighting, eyeing the set-up from myriad angles and shooting Sam frequent huffy looks.

Steve occasionally drew Sam while he slept. 

(“S’creepy when you stare at me like that, Steven.”

“You look cute when you sleep with your mouth open like that.”

“S’still creepy. Quit it.”)

Sometimes they squabbled. What else was new? Both of them expressed their feelings differently; Sam, despite earning a living asking teenagers to discuss their feelings and to bring their problems to him, actually hated having to admit that something was bothering him, becoming the Calmly Smiling Steel Trap whenever Steve would pry. And Steve pried like a crow bar, hating anything that felt like the silent treatment or avoiding a subject just to keep the peace if it got in the way of clearing the air. 

Sometimes, Steve had blue moods.

He still missed Sarah. They visited Sarah’s grave earlier in the week, and Steve was struggling a little, shorter with Sam than usual and drifting sometimes when they talked. Sam knew he needed to give Steve a little space. And the occasional fancy coffee left at the edge of his desk with a brief kiss, as a reminder.

Sam occasionally had to reheat Steve’s plate more than once when he would throw himself into commission work or push to complete his art gallery collections. Steve would go through cycles of insomnia, working on drawings or paintings long into the night, sometimes sneaking out of their bed in the wee hours to mix his colors, earbuds plugged in so as not to disturb Sam, but the low glow of his desk lamp would still manage to shine its way through the gap at the bottom of the bedroom door. Sam would pad out naked and yawning, squinting at the light in confusion.

“Coming to bed soon?”

“Soon,” he’d assure Sam, but his tone was noncommittal.

“Soon?” Sam would press, letting his hands skim around Steve’s waist, fumbling up under the hem of his shirt as he grazed Steve’s neck with his lips, enjoying Steve’s little shudder.

“Soon,” he would promise, voice tinged with a mixture of annoyance and affection.

“You look tired,” Sam would urge, and he wasn’t just flirting. Certainly, he wanted him to come back to bed to give him some attention, but Steve… he would get that worn-down look, shadows under his blue eyes. When Steve couldn’t sleep, he had heavy things on his mind. Years of friendship taught them all of each other’s different tells, but living together changed things. So many things.

“I’ll be back in a few.”

“A few seconds?” Sam asked hopefully. He was gently exploring the sweet, warm place behind Steve’s ear with his lips, arms coiling around him.

“Yer gonna get cold,” Steve scolded fondly as he leaned back to give Sam better access. “Get back in bed, Samuel.”

“Wouldn’t be cold if someone would come back and warm me up.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, y’know that?”

“Uh-huh.” Sam wasn’t apologetic, and Steve was sounding more affected by Sam’s touch despite his attempt at chiding him.

“Just as long as you knew.”

“Those are oils, right?” he asked Steve, nodding at his palette.

“Yeah…” Steve’s voice broke on a little hiss of pleasure when Sam’s roaming hand toyed with his nipple, and Sam nibbled on his earlobe, sucking on it like a Lifesaver.

“Then they won’t dry out if you come to bed,” Sam murmured temptingly. His voice sounded like dark honey, husking the words into Steve’s skin, and Steve’s face slowly turned, letting Sam trace a slow path from temple, to cheek, to jaw, and finally to his hungry, waiting mouth. Steve reached up to cup Sam’s nape, tugging him down to better taste him, to share his breath and heat. He didn’t object when Sam’s hands slipped underneath the waistband of his drawstring pajama bottoms, instead letting his thighs splay open in surrender.

Steve liked to pretend that Sam pulling him away from his projects annoyed him. Sam liked just as much to pretend he was contrite.

*  
Sam and Steve managed to book their red-eye flight to Providence and a modest Kia rental before they sat down to Sam’s turkey chili. Puddin’ was banished to their bedroom, where she sulked under the bed; Sam knew Steve wasn’t above sneaking her a tidbit of turkey when his back was turned. They watched “Ink Master Redemption” and jeered the previous season’s losing tattoos.

“He overworked the skin,” Steve mentioned. “That’s why it’s all faded like that.”

“Probably just as well. The line work was _crap._ ”

“That’s one thing I never wanted to do with my art.”

“What?”

“Tats. If I mess up a canvas, I get the gesso, and –“ He made an erasing motion with his hand and a low whistle through his teeth. “Bye-bye, bad painting. I get to start over. Can’t do that with skin.”

“What? You’re afraid to take risks with a person’s body and give them something they might be ashamed of for the rest of their life?”

“Well, yeah… or they might try to come back and kill me, like _that_ guy,” Steve murmured, nodding at the screen. 

“Think he’ll get another tattoo?”

“Ehhhh.” Then, “Yeah.”

They finished dinner and ruminated over bottles of hard cider. “I couldn’t do that,” Sam remarked.

“What?”

“Get a tattoo. I couldn’t commit to something that permanent.”

“Can’t commit, huh?” Steve scoffed. His eyes were full mischief behind his bifocals. Sam knocked his knee against Steve’s thigh in umbrage.

“You’re too chicken, too. I don’t see any ink on your pristine skin, sir.”

“Oh, ho,” Steve crowed. “Is that your way of calling me a weenie?”

“If the ween fits…”

Steve leaned over and gave Sam a hard shove, touching off a wrestling and tickling match that sent them rolling off the couch. Steve was wiry and sneaky, despite Sam’s size advantage, and they rolled and tumbled over the carpet, gasping and snickering every time either of their hands landed a savage pinch or poke on a vulnerable spot.

“You’re an ass!” Sam rasped as Steve managed to get his leg over him and flip them until he was on top of Sam. His arms were clamped tight at his sides to stop the onslaught of his armpits. “Oh, no you don’t!”

“Am I still a weenie? C’mon, Sam, am I weenie?”

“YES!”

“Oooh! YOU!” Sam was cackling at this point.

“Take it back.”

“Never!” Gasping and giggling, Sam blocked Steve’s next jab at his ribs and grabbed his wrist, eventually managing to snare the other and jerking Steve down against him. Steve struggled, realization dawning on his face.

“Hey!”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I still love you, even if you’re a weenie.”

“HEY!”

“You think you’re bad? Huh? Think you can get me?”

“You suck,” Steve huffed, but he was gasping, giggling as Sam wrestled him down, eventually snaring his skinny upper arms in a snug grip. Steve tried to jerk free, but he was pinned against Sam’s chest. He felt the heat of his skin through his thin shirt, and Sam’s breath smelled like the hard cider and chili peppers. “Jerk.”

“I said I still love you,” Sam cajoled.

“That doesn’t excuse the weenie-calling,” Steve argued. He was still wriggling, and Sam angled him up, thrusting his hips against him. Their struggle inevitably made him hard as a rock, because how _wouldn’t_ Sam get turned on by his boyfriend when he was being feisty? “Seriously? You’re gonna insult me and then get all freaky about it?”

“I’m sorry. I hurt your feelings.” Even though his lips curled in a slow, seductive smile, kicking any possibility of a sincere apology out the window. Sam’s hips thrust up at Steve again, and Steve struggled even more, but the effort was half-hearted at best.

“Yeah, you did.”

“Want me to make it up to you?”

“That won’t make it up to me,” Steve accused. “The whole point of apologizing, buddy, is to offer to do something to make the other person feel better-“

“…which is exactly what I had in mind,” Sam assured him, and his grip on Steve’s arms gentled. He felt some of the tension in Steve’s back uncurl, and he went to push himself up off of Sam, but Sam took hold of his hips instead. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there, partner. We haven’t figured out how I’m going to make it up to you.”

“I think you’re trying to make my mind up for me.”

“Is it working?”

“No.” (Yes.) 

“Not even a little?” And Sam’s hips rolled up against him, betraying Steve’s state, because he was stiff and straining against him, his snug jeans doing nothing to hide the hard knob of his arousal.

“You’re the worst.”

“That’s not what you said last night-“

“God, you went there,” Steve muttered as he leaned down and kissed him, sinking his teeth into Sam’s lower lip. Sam chuckled into his mouth, and he felt licking over him when Steve ground down against him, returning his teasing in full measure. Tickling was abandoned in favor of blatant _groping_.

“Let’s go back,” Sam grunted between kisses.

“Shut up and take this off,” Steve argued with him as he wrestled Sam’s shirt off of him, barely breaking their kiss long enough to pull it up over his head. Sam felt the rush of air against his now bare skin and met Steve’s smirk with an incredulous look.

“You’re one _bossy_ somebody.”

“C’mere,” Steve told him, and his eyes were dark with passion. Sam nodded briefly before he drew him down into a kiss that didn’t know how to end, but kept building, swelling with heat and need. Sam reached up and took off Steve’s glasses and gently set them up on the coffee table before kissing him again, slow and lingering, fingers combing through the back of his hair. He felt Steve’s fingers tugging at the button of his jeans, and he groaned his approval when he felt the flap give way, heard the sharp tearing of zipper teeth before Steve worked the offending denim off.

Within minutes, they were both naked and exploring each other’s skin. Sam didn’t give a damn about rug burn or how many times they writhed, shifted and rolled over his favorite shirt. Steve was pushing and grinding against him with the sounds of their show still playing in the background; it was DVR’ed. They could rewind.

“m’I still a weenie?” Steve prodded, voice low and rough.

“No,” Sam told him. Steve was moving against him in the rhythm they both liked, fast and hard. Sam wanted Steve too much to slow down and prepare him with his fingers. Being inside of Steve was secondary to simply being _with_ Steve right now. And Sam wanted him like this, with him looming over him, watching his face change, seeing that slow flush bloom over his fair skin. Sam ringed them both in his fist, and he felt the first hint of slickness leak from the tip of Steve’s cock.

“You like that?”

“Yes.” Sam kept meeting his thrusts, eyes drifting shut from pleasure of each bump and slide, helping them along with jerks of his hand.

“You feel so good,” Steve grated out. 

“Keep going.”

“So… good,” Steve continued. 

“That’s you. That’s all you.” Steve kissed the argument out of him and they rocked against each other in earnest.

“Jesus…”

“Don’t stop. If you… love me at… all…”

“M’not gonna stop. Not gonna stop.” Steve liked the contrast of his fair hands framing Sam’s face, letting the edge of his thumb skim over his soft lips. 

“Love me?”

“I love you. I love you.”

Because he never got tired of telling Sam. Not after so many years of biting back the words, pushing those feelings down. All of the things he wouldn’t let himself say slipped out through all of the small acts of kindness, the kidding around and ridiculous arguments and long nights commiserating over FaceTime calls or beer in dive bars. If he was greedy for Sam now, you really couldn’t blame Steve. You just _couldn’t._

Not when he responded to him like that, hands sliding over him and mapping out his body. Sam’s touch was possessive; every time they made love, some part of him wanted to assure Steve of how much he meant to him. Sometimes, Sam would just watch Steve, in the middle of some chore or mundane task, when he was drawing, when he would catch him karaoke-singing along with his Pandora station in the kitchen while he was scrambling eggs… and it would hit him again, how lucky he was. How fate favored them, shifting Sam away from what he knew, from settling with Riley, when Sam finally woke up and realized that Steve held his missing pieces. And when Sam would watch Steve, Steve would feel those piercing brown eyes on him, and look up to see Sam’s familiar smile, just a quirk of the corner of his mouth. Steve’s brows would draw together.

“What?” he would inevitably ask.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“M’not. No reason.”

“O. Kay.” But Steve would redden, and he would go back to his eggs, or his sketch and his bad singing, but with a crooked smile of his own. Because why wouldn’t he be happy when he held Sam Wilson’s full attention? It was satisfying, still a little too good to be true, but it felt so _right_. And Sam loved seeing him make that look, adopting that bashful little hunch of his shoulders, trying to hide that he was pleased.

It was the same look Sam gave him when he caught Steve staring.

It was nothing compared to how he looked now, hair tousled from Sam running his fingers through it, a faint purple mark blooming on his pale throat from where Sam nipped him, just a little too eager. Those lips were so red, puffy and a little chapped, and his eyes were glazed with arousal and dilated. 

“C’mere.”

“What?”

“Up here. Scoot up,” Sam demanded as he rolled his hips up against him and tugged him north. “C’mere. Bring yourself up where I can get at it.”

Steve huffed. “You want… okay. That’s…” Sam kissed him, mouth dragging over Steve’s chin, slicking down his neck, the knobs of his collarbones, down the neat plane of his chest. He teased Steve’s nipples, making Steve shudder, and he nipped at each rib, tongued at the sensitive inny navel before urging Steve closer to his intended target: Sam’s mouth. “You’re really gonna… oh. Okay.” Steve’s voice cut off on a shaky burst of breath and he scooted forward onto the heels of his hands as Sam pulled Steve between his lips, engulfing him in his heat. Sam’s hands gripped his hips, holding him in place as he thrust his head up to work at him, pulling on him, just shy of _insatiable_. The sight of Sam’s head bracketed between Steve’s knees, with his cock disappearing into his mouth, over and over, was undoing him. “Okay,” Steve said again. Sam hummed in agreement, because he was a terrible person who loved pushing Steve past his limits…

The sounds he made when he came were inhuman, indecent; Sam was glad, again, that they convinced Clint to swap roommates and finally move in with Nat, because trying to limit this to a thin-walled bedroom out of discretion would’ve just made things awkward all around. Sam didn’t do “awkward.” Not when he had a boyfriend who made that much noise when he got worked up. Nooooo, nonono. Sam moved Steve’s stuff out of his old apartment in just one trip with the U-Haul. The last of the boxes were still stacked unopened in the living room when Sam pulled Steve back into his bedroom and christened it as “theirs.” They’d christened the rest of the apartment over time, too, but the living room floor gave them room to roll. It wasn’t like Nat and Clint were ever quiet themselves, either; Clint sounded like a hyena in heat.

Steve wobbled a little as he eased his way back down. “That was… nice,” Steve murmured. His face was bleary and relaxed, every muscle in his body limp. “I can’t move.” He tried to snuggle down against Sam, but his boyfriend was shouldering his way up from the floor. “Hey. Where’re you going?”

“I’m taking you with me.”

“I was just about to get… comfy.” Sam levered himself upright, arching as he reached for Steve’s arms, making him wrap them around his neck.

“Hold on.” Sam levered himself up, standing and taking Steve with him, wrapping Steve’s legs around his hips. “You’re gonna be real comfy in a minute, baby.”

Sam’s erection was caught between their bodies as they headed back toward the bedroom, ignoring the puddle of discarded clothes behind them. “Are you up to this?” Steve asked as they headed down the hall.

“Yup. Get the door.” Steve snickered as he reached down and twisted the knob. Just as the door swung open, Puddin’ ran out of the room in a blur of gray fur, indignant and being shut in for that long. She almost tripped Sam, but he still held on to Steve as they let themselves inside.

“Damned cat,” Sam muttered.

“She’s a good girl, be nice,” Steve chided before Sam dumped Steve onto the bed. “Hey!” Steve backed his way toward the headboard, with Sam chasing him down until he was sprawled on his back, covered by Sam’s body. Steve didn’t mind the location change. The sheets felt slick and cool under his back and they smelled like Sam. There was also a bottle of Astroglide on the bedside table. There were benefits to abandoning the living room carpet. The main benefit was currently sandwiched between them, leaking hot droplets onto Steve’s flat belly and twitching every time Steve teased it with his fingers.

The urgency between them cooled, and Sam prepared Steve slowly, drawing it out to bring him back toward the brink, making Steve cant his hips up with need. He squeezed Sam’s slippery fingers, pulsing around him as his cock twitched back to life. This time, Sam was the one who watched Steve’s face, head pushed back into the pillows. His fingers absently stroked Sam’s arm, then lazily circled the wrist that continued to thrust, feeling the pulse of his veins and the flex of muscle.

“S’good.” It was all Steve could manage. Sam kissed him again, drinking his sigh of contentment, and their tongues tangled lazily, in time with the push of Sam’s fingers. Steve wanted him close again, missing the feeling of Sam pressed against him, craving the shelter of his body, and Steve reached for the lubricant, flicking the cap open with his thumb. Sam lost his rhythm, then let his hand slip free when Steve found him, squirming in Steve’s grip as he coated him in the cool liquid. He milked his length in his grip.

“Come and warm me up,” Steve husked. It was a common demand; Steve didn’t have any meat on his bones, so he was always getting chilly. Sam rubbed the head of his cock, rosy and straining, against Steve’s entrance, skimming it over the slicked divide. It was more slow, sensuous teasing, because he wanted Steve to want it, to be as desperate for it as Sam was for Steve to envelop him. 

And Steve was rutting up at him, hands fisted in the pillow beneath his head. “C’mon, Sam. Please. Pleasepleaseplease…”

“How much do you want it, baby?” Sam’s voice was thick and soft.

“Please…”

“Awwww…” Sam gave him a pitying look, dragging his dick against him again, barely letting the tip push at Steve’s rim, then replacing it with his thumb. Steve was relaxed, but he was still clenching up with want.

“ _Please._ ”

“This what you want?” Sam asked smugly.

“I’m _begging_ you. Sam, just… oh, God.” He breached him, pushing himself into Steve’s waiting heat. Sam held onto Steve’s tapered thighs and slowly worked himself inside, finding so much satisfaction in the way Steve’s eyes shuttered and how he reached up to grip the headboard. He rode him, feeling pleasure curl in his body.

“It’s hot when you do that,” Sam rasped. “Say my name like that again.”

“Sam…”

“Just like that.”

“Sam… please.”

“Don’t try to be quiet,” Sam urged, and there was a hint of grit in his voice. “I wanna hear you, Steve.”

“Oh, God…”

“You feel so good.” He was just thrusting evenly, not quite in up to the root, just soft snaps of his hips. “Do you like it?”

“Please.” His eyes opened, and Steve reached up and clamped his hand around Sam’s nape, dragging him down for more sloppy kisses. He picked up the pace, hearing Steve’s breathing change, the shifting pitch of his voice and the tightness that crept into it. “Please, Sam. Sam…”

Their neighbors were going to _hate_ them.

No matter how much Steve pleaded with him, Sam set the pace and always backed off just as Steve began to cry out for it. 

Steve wasn’t having it.

Steve leaned up onto his elbows and kissed Sam, hard. Sam moaned into it, feeling him nip at his lips, but just as he began to surrender himself to it, he felt his world flip. Steve rolled Sam to his back. He was still engaged, and Steve ground down on him, squeezing himself around Sam, and Sam released a choked breath.

“I said ‘please,’” Steve reminded him politely before he began thrusting down on Sam, harder than Sam had planned, and gradually, faster. After Steve’s earlier climax, he should, by rights, have been limp as a rag and completely spent. But he didn’t want Sam’s erection to go to waste, and Sam looked just as sexy on his back as he did when he was on top of Steve, face suffused with need and lust. Sam held onto Steve’s hips and let him ride him. Waves of pleasure rolled through his body as Steve sped up, hips snapping down against him, driving him to that perfect place.

Every vein and tendon went taut in Sam’s throat when he came, feeling the orgasm travel down his spine, into his hips, and he pulsed hot and slick as he emptied his seed. Sam arched up off the bed, arms clamping around Steve as his hips jerked, slamming up into him those last few times. His face… his face once he came was Steve’s favorite look in the world.

They lay sprawled together, covers pulled up to their chests and listening to each other breathe. Sam was rubbing the ball of his foot up and down Steve’s calf and absently stroking his hair. Dimly, he heard the TV in the living room.

“One of us has to get up and turn that off.”

“I’ll keep the covers warm for you,” Steve offered.

“Gee, thanks, pal.”

“Hey, anything for a friend.”

“Just give me a minute, then.” Because he wasn’t’ in any hurry to disturb their reverie or the slack grace of Steve’s body curved against Sam’s, fitting into all of his hollows.

“A minute,” Steve yawned. Sam heard the low pop of his jaw when he did that and pulled the covers up higher, covering Steve up to his ears.

They remained there, watching the sky turn indigo outside and the street lamps turn themselves on through the window. Sam eased himself down lower, until he could settle his head just below Steve’s chin and listen to his heartbeat. Sam sighed, content, when Steve began to stroke his coarse curls.

“So. You can’t commit to ink, huh?”

“S’too permanent,” Sam muttered, yawning back at him.

“Not even a small tat?”

Sam huffed. “I don’t know. Depends on what it is, I guess. But probably not.”

Steve was oddly silent, but his fingers still stroked Sam’s hair.

“Why are you asking me if I want a tattoo?”

Steve huffed, and Sam heard something resigned in his voice, almost rueful when he replied. “Just wondering. Thought… maybe you wouldn’t mind one on your ring finger.”

“What?” Sam eased himself up and stared into Steve’s face. His boyfriend cocked his head in a slight shrug.

“Y’know. Like a ring.”

“Like a ring.”

“Maybe not,” Steve recanted, but Sam caught his chin and tipped his face up to look at him when Steve tried to glance away.

“Like a ring,” Sam repeated. The emotions worked their way over his face, and Sam let out a shaky breath. “Are you… is this you proposing to me?”

“This is me making an ass of myself…”

“No. No. That time you asked Kate Pryde out just as her boyfriend Peter walked up to meet her at her locker.”

“All six and a half feet of him,” Steve agreed. “Yeah. This is getting about that awkward, now, Sammy.”

“It’d only be awkward if I said no.” Sam propped himself on his elbow and laid his palm against Steve’s jaw, stroking it with his thumb. “I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Because they’re permanent?”

“Because they’re trendy and cheesy. The only permanent thing I want in my life is _you_.”

“Are you calling me cheesy, Wilson?” His tone was accusatory, but Steve’s fingers closed over Sam’s wrist.

“Yes. You, Steve Rogers, are the biggest, most ridiculous, trendy, hipster cheeseball that ever walked God’s green earth.”

“…thanks?”

“And you’ll make the best husband I could ever want.”


End file.
